


the wonderlands

by stylinsoncity



Series: the wonderlands [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Depression, Florist Harry, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, M/M, Past Character Death, Producer Louis, Recreational Drug Use, Rich Louis, Rock and Roll, Secret Relationship, Single Parent Harry, Slow Burn, Smut, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-12 17:37:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 150,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7115752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stylinsoncity/pseuds/stylinsoncity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"Somewhere between chaos and control — these are the wonderlands."</em> </p><p>Harry's daughter, Andy, is signed to Louis' girl band. Her path to success is marked by competition, chaos, and for Harry, a love affair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

_and wonder: to create art, wonder is the first step. you acknowledge your own finite elements and you acknowledge the infinite. when you realize the wonderful and mysterious is around you, you assent to the idea that you are not in control and you begin to wonder. and that’s where the songs are born._

- jon foreman

†

**JULY 2016**

A fitted black suit with trousers that hug his legs like an old friend and a jacket that hints at lean muscled biceps. Gleaming platinum cufflinks. Carefully shaped and polished hair. A strong, steady gait. Harry shouldn’t have expected anything less, but when Louis Tomlinson steps into the room looking as he does, he and the entire room hold a collective breath in awe of him.

The sunlight streaming through the glass windows lining the conference room appears to shift and redirect towards him, catching on all the right points and turning him to a glowing Adonis.

Harry straightens his spine and when he looks, everyone else is doing the same. Beside him, Andy goes to touch the end of her plait but it isn’t there. They worked too long that morning getting her hair into a bun like she’d wanted. She said it looked professional. She shifts in her seat and shoots him a smile.

An eager assistant rushes to turn Louis’ teacup over and fill it with steaming dark tea while Louis takes his seat and looks down the length of the table.

“Good morning, everyone,” he speaks, voice strong and clear. The corners of his mouth curl in a fleeting closed-lip smile. “Thank you all for coming. I know the trip here was long for some of you.”

He takes a careful sip of his tea and then a breath. “I’m sure you've got places to be so I won’t keep you,” he says. “You have in front of you the contracts which were drafted up by our lawyers, Mr Jack Lieberman and Ms Alex Holt.” He gestures to the two individuals sitting across from Harry and the other parents in the room.

“Your own lawyers have also looked over the contracts,” Louis says. “And made adjustments and negotiations they found necessary.”

Harry glances at Niall who's sat beside Andy, wearing fake glasses he purchased at Lloyds because he said they make him look smart.

“That said, we’ve all reached a mutual understanding of our obligations from here on out,” Louis says. “So, without further delay, let’s proceed. Please.” He gestures to the folders on the table, and Harry opens the one positioned in front of him, lifting the pen beside it.

Contracts have always given him pause. The concept of ink and paper acting as a chieftain of sorts is daunting, as is the man sitting like a king at the end of the table. Despite how many times Harry has combed through this very contract with Niall or how many times he’s talked it over with Andy, he hesitates now.

Everyone else is already signing. Some have even passed the contracts over to their daughters. At least one of the girls doesn’t require parental signature at all.

Harry clicks the pen once, twice, and twirls it between his fingers.

“Dad,” Andy urges him quietly.

Harry glances towards the end of the table. Their eyes meet, his and Louis’. He feels a stroke of fear in that moment like the other man can read every line of him. He tries to school his expression into one of impassivity but it’s unclear as to whether or not he succeeds.

Slowly, Louis smiles. Not the tense thing he managed seconds ago. This one is softer, more cautious, and knowing. Perhaps he hasn’t read every line but he’s picked up on the synopsis, and the private smile he reserves for Harry now is as reassuring as Harry needs it to be.

Harry directs his gaze to the contract and the line awaiting his signature and begins.

†

“Can you _believe_ this?” Andy gasps, staring up at the sky. “I still can’t believe this.”

Harry tugs on his necktie and then opts to pull the damn thing off entirely. He loosens the first three buttons of his shirt and exhales. He feels the infrequent lure of nicotine, watching a person light up across the street. It’s been months since his last smoke but every now and then, it feels like no time has passed at all.

Andy turns to him, eyes wide.

“You’re officially a star,” he tells her.

The words tastes funny on their venture past his lips. He uses it often when talking to his daughter, Andy, short for Andromeda. Her name is robust and elaborate but it’s a wink at her mother’s name too. She was Cassie, short for Cassiopeia. From the beginning, they thought of their daughter as a star. Harry just never realized she'd become one in the literal sense.

He watches through the glass as Niall shakes hands with one of the lawyers who’d been present at the meeting and steps through the double doors of Sony's headquarters. Harry looks at him and smiles.

“You can lose the glasses now.”

Niall touches his thumb to the bridge of his glasses. “Not until we’re in the car.”

“You know, the suit does more than enough. You look every bit the average lawyer in this alone,” Harry says, sweeping his hand across Niall’s lapel.

“I look like I finished training just yesterday,” Niall argues.

Harry huffs a breath. “Can we go for a pint now?”

“Yeah,” Niall says, clapping him on the shoulder. “You look like you need it.”

“Bee,” Harry calls to Andy. “Come on.”

A fury of commotion starts up to their left. Harry had seen the people gathered there but didn’t realize who they were until they raise their cameras. Bright flashes pop and fade like fireworks. Everyone standing on the pavement redirects their attention towards the glass doors where a burly security guard extends his arm to keep them all at bay. Louis steps out, a pair of aviator shades donned, head down.

“Louis!” the paparazzi calls. “Louis! Look here! Louis, you just signed your first band, man! How about a smile?”

Louis doesn't even look at them, but how could he, Harry thinks, with all that light and too much noise? Another guard opens the door to a sleek black car parked directly ahead of them and Louis slips inside. The door shuts behind him and the car pulls off.

Harry looks to Niall, finding his expression much the same: dazed and detached. They’ve had more than enough of this show for now.

“Pints?” Niall says.

Harry nods. “Pints.”

†

Andy swirls her chip through the frothy crown of her root beer float and stuffs it in her mouth.

“Can you believe...?” she mumbles, mostly to herself. She's pulled her long curly hair from its bun and keeps it back with her heart-shaped sunnies. Her lip glossed mouth parts for another chip but before she eats it, she whispers for the millionth time that day, “I can't believe this.”

Harry looks at Niall who raises his second beer to his mouth in lieu of a comment. His phone shivers against the wooden pub table. He reads the message there waiting for him and swings his gaze toward the entrance. His sister waves when she spots him and starts her venture towards them.

“Gemma, is that a gift bag?” Harry asks as he stands to hug her.

“It’s just a little something,” she replies.

“Come on,” Niall groans. “We said no gifts.”

“You got me a gift?” Andy gasps.

“Just a _little_ something,” Gemma repeats as she hugs Niall. She pulls Andy into a big hug and presses her hands against her cheeks. “So proud of you.”

Andy grins, swiping the gift bag out of her hands. “Can I open it?”

“Just as soon as I grab a beer. I don't want to miss this,” Gemma says, setting her handbag down. She heads to the bar, still dressed in her work attire. She looks tired every time Harry sees her these days. Being a teacher while raising a child would do the same to anyone.

“We said no gifts,” Niall mutters.

Harry pats his arm. “Don't beat yourself up about it.”

“Yes, Niall, it's _okay_ ,” Andy says. “We know you're on the dole.”

Niall grabs a handful of chips as if to toss them at her. Harry pins him still with a fierce look. “I washed my hair this morning," he says firmly. The last food fight ended with maple syrup stuck to his curls for hours.

Andy slurps on her drink, glaring across the table. They'll hash it out later over a game of FIFA most likely, which is best for everyone. Gemma returns with a heavy sigh and a pint set on the table.

“Alright,” she says. “I'm ready.”

Andy's arm dives into the gift bag. She extracts a light blue jewellery box.

Niall starts shaking his head again. “A little something, she says.”

Gemma swats at him, her eyes focused on Andy as she pops the box open.

“I _love_ it,” Andy says immediately and passionately.

“What is it?” Niall asks, leaning close.

Andy draws a gold necklace from the box and lifts it into the dim light. The gleaming body of the pendant swings slightly in the air, adorned with delicate jewel-encrusted wings outstretched.

A bee for Bee.

When Andy was still newly born and sputtering spit bubbles the way babies do, Cassie would call her 'my little Bee' and the endearment stuck long after she was gone. One day when she was much older, Andy came to Harry with her guitar in hand, and played a cord for him, slamming her thumb down on the fret, causing the string to buzz. She looked at him, eyes wide. 'I’m buzzing', she’d exclaimed like a manic genius and _buzzing_ forever became synonymous with playing guitar.

“You can open it,” Gemma says, lifting her beer. “It’s a locket.”

Andy gasps. “ _What_?” She starts fumbling with the pendant and twists it open. There aren’t any pictures inside, just an inscription. She laughs. “It says ‘Buzz on.’ I love this _so_ much.”

“It’s from the whole family,” Gemma says. “Your dad included.”

Harry gives Gemma a look, but she ignores him. When Andy beams in his direction and throws her arm around him, he’s forced to play along. He didn’t contribute a penny to buying the necklace. He doesn’t even know how much it cost, though he can imagine. Spare money for him is always used on ice cream and clothes and on buying new records every now and then. Not on gifts, even as much as he’d like that.

Andy places the necklace in Harry's palm. “Could you put it on?” she asks.

“'Course,” Harry says.

The bee hangs low on her torso when he’s finished. It pairs well with the necklace she already wears, a cross that belonged to her mum. Andy holds the gold bee between her fingers. “It’s perfect. I’m never taking it off.”

Gemma smiles. “Good. I want to see it when you’re on the cover of Rolling Stone.”

“Hell yes,” Andy says. “Probably won’t happen anytime soon. But when I’m a solo artist definitely, and I’m one step closer now.”

Harry sighs. “Stop talking about being solo when you’ve just joined a band. It’s not the right mindset.”

“But it’s true,” Andy says dismissively. “This is all just a pit stop.”

Harry tells himself to stop trying but never does. He resigns with a “Finish your chips” and lifts his beer to his mouth.

†

The first time he put a guitar in his daughter’s hands she was five years old. Cassie had the idea that if Jimi Hendrix started at 15, imagine what their child could achieve if she started a decade earlier. It’d been a joke, as far as he could remember. But Harry’s mum insisted that every child needed a talent and he couldn’t think of a better one than music. it was only meant to be a talent, though. Not a career.

Andy took to the guitar like it was an extension of herself. Her palm touched the wooden neck of a Les Paul, her fingers stroked the copper strings, and it told her all its secrets, everything she needed to know. By ten, she played as well as Harry. By fifteen, she played better.

At sixteen, she’s sitting in a studio surrounded by three other girls, an ocean of space separating them from Harry and the other parents spectating their first rehearsal. He’s never felt further from her. _You’re clinging_ , she says sometimes. That’s a thing he does a lot apparently. Even his sister says so. He responds to separation anxiety by seizing opportunities to hold tighter. He doesn’t have anything to hold onto right now but his own sanity. He’s nervous and from the way she’s tugging at the end of her plait, Andy is too.

He pulls out his phone and sends her a quick, “You’re doing great!”

She reads the message and looks at him, her eyes narrowed and nose scrunched up. She sends a reply and stores her phone away.

“We haven’t done anything yet,” reads her message.

She makes a good point. Clinging doesn’t make much room for logic.

Harry glances at the other parents in the room, one of which is already looking at him. She smiles and extends her hand for a shake across the short distance between their chairs.

“I’m Rachel. I don’t think we’ve spoken yet,” she says.

Harry takes her hand. “Harry,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”

“You’re with Andy, yes?”

“I am,” Harry says. “And you’re Rose’s mum?”

“Sister, actually."

He should have known. Now that he looks at her, she can’t be old enough to have a 17-year-old daughter. But then again, most people think the same of him.

“I thought you were Andy's brother, at first,” Rachel says, echoing his thoughts. “You and Andy could be twins.”

“I should start telling people we are,” Harry says. “Suppose I’m playing myself.”

Rachel grins. “Not too late to start now. I won’t tell anyone.”

Their attention is diverted by the door opening on the side of the room. In walks Louis with a string of individuals after him. Harry recognizes one as the producer, Darkchild, a music industry power player known for working with Beyonce and Mariah Carey. The rest, he’s never seen before.

All of the girls sit upright. Andy releases her plait. Beside her is Rose, the guitarist, with her blond hair pulled into a ponytail. On the left of Rose is Kendra, the drummer, who only now decides to stick her sunglasses into her dark fro. Finally, there’s Mercy, the bassist, with honey brown hair and nails she’s chewed down to the quick while they waited.

Louis’ eyes pass over them, smile growing. “Good morning, everyone.” His voice is strong enough to carry through the room but somehow soft too.

The girls reply with greetings of their own.

“I’m happy to see you all looking well-rested and ready to go,” Louis says. “We’re hoping for a productive day today. We’ll mostly just be focusing on groundwork. Getting you all better acquainted. Going over some general info. I’d like for you all to start learning each other’s styles as musicians too. It’s my hope that soon enough you’ll start to feel like a band and then, of course, you’ll _be_ a band.”

Harry sits forward, bracing his arms atop his knees.

Louis claps his hands together. “Let’s get started with introductions.”

Their first 'rehearsal' doesn’t turn into much of a rehearsal at all. It is, however, exhausting, even for Harry who mostly chats at random with the other parents. He leaves for a break to ring his mum about dinner and fetch a cup of coffee, and returns to Andy removing her guitar from its case and lifting the glittering silver strap over her head. He finds his seat again and watches while she and the other girls ready themselves to play.

“I've got a question.”

That’s Rose. When she turns to face Louis and Darkchild, her blond ponytail whips the air, as does the surprising sharpness of her voice. Everyone looks at her, which Harry detects is what she wants.

“We've all got a role, yeah? Drummer. Bassist. Vocalist. Me, the guitarist, yeah?” Rose asks.

Louis’ brow creases. “That’s correct.”

“I’m just clarifying since there’s more than two guitars here.”

Andy’s gaze lifts away from the strings of her Les Paul and Harry sits forward again, watching the little lines appear between her brows. The tension congeals in the room until everyone is stuck in it.

“There are some things we’re still working out right now,” Louis says after a breath. “Originally, yes, the plan was that each girl would have one role. But all of you can sing and more than one of you can play the guitar.”

Some of the parents start chattering again, discussing this new piece of information. Beside him, Rachel says nothing, and he wouldn’t expect her to now. At least, not to him.

“So then the lead vocalist role is open again?” Rose asks, and again the room silences.

Harry purses his lips, thinking back to the night before.

 _“_ You know Rose, the guitarist? She doesn’t like me,” Andy had said. “I can tell.”

“How so?” Harry asked as he swept fallen leaves and petals off the worktop into a rubbish bin.

They were tidying up the flower shop before retiring for bed. The time had passed slowly thus far, each hour bringing them closer to the following morning, and her first official day as a professional musician.

“It doesn't matter," she'd replied quietly.

“Hey," he'd said. "You know what to do right? No matter what?" 

Andy looked at him and smiled. "Make music, not war."

"That's right."

Of course _now_ , with this pointy-nosed girl singling Andy out, it’s hard to feel the same way he did then. It’s hard to champion peace when Andy has a death grip around the neck of her guitar, not from anger but from anxiety. She doesn’t do well with confrontation. She gets that from him. Cassie would've charged head first into a problem. Harry always tried to find the quickest route out of it. Andy fell somewhere in between.

“Not quite,” Louis says. Another long pause. “The lead vocalist role...will go to Andy.”

“And lead guitar?” Rose questions.

Louis simply looks at her. “We’re considering also giving that to Andy,” he says carefully.

“How exactly is that fair?” Rachel speaks up.

Harry tenses and Andy looks at him, her bottom lip bitten. He exhales between his lips, trying to signal for her to do the same. She does.

Louis turns in his seat and looks at Rachel. Even from this distance, Harry can see his jaw lock.

“It’s not meant to be fair. It’s meant to be productive,” Louis says, and turns to face the girls again. Rachel sits back in her seat, looking somewhat affronted. She should be, in all honesty. Even Harry knows a dismissal when he sees one. Louis’ next words are solely for the girls and they’re gentler. “When we really start to play and hash things out, we’ll have a better idea of where everyone fits best. I know it’s a lot to process right now but every decision we make is so that you girls can be the best. I promise that no one will be left out or made to feel like they aren’t contributing. I need you to trust that. All of you.” He casts a glance again to the parents, his eyes lingering on Rachel, flickering almost imperceptibly to Harry.

With a sigh, he looks at Darkchild. “Alright. That’s more than enough talking. Let’s run through some songs.”

It goes terribly.

Andy and Rose attempt to outplay each other whenever they have the chance. They throw everyone off. Louis stops them repeatedly. He has them go acapella and even then, they try to outsing each other. After a break, Rachel decides to sit beside another parent, and Harry assumes that their short acquaintanceship has come to a quick end.

Harry spends the rest of the band’s painful display with his forehead in the palm of his hand. There’s still a whole half hour left when Louis mercifully brings things to a close.

†

“So,” Harry’s mum, Anne, cooes, squeezing Andy’s shoulders. “How was rehearsal today?”

“Awful,” Andy says curtly, slipping past her.

Harry looks at his mum expressionlessly. “I told you not to mention it,” he says, leaning in to press a greeting kiss to her cheek. “I literally just told you so on the phone.”

“How am I supposed to not talk about this? My granddaughter’s first big day as a musician?” she asks. “I expected happy news.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Harry says. He lifts the paper bag in his hand. “I brought wine to make up for it.”

His mum pats his dimpled cheek and takes the bag from him, shutting the wooden door behind them. One of the cats brushes his ankle, its siblings lost somewhere in Harry’s massive childhood home. Stepping into the kitchen behind his mum, he’s greeted straight away by Gemma, two kisses dropped to either side of his cheeks.

“What happened?” she whispers, throwing a glance at Andy curled up in the window seat with another cat pressed to her chest.

“Hate to say it but one of the girls is a bit of a bitch,” Harry replies.

“ _Harry_ ,” his mum hisses.

A smile dons Andy’s face, although she directs it towards the rain-splattered window pane.

“It’s the honest truth,” Harry says. “There’s no other way to explain it. She’s bloody Regina George.”

His mum hands him a glass of wine. He takes a big swig of it, strolling over to the window seat. He lifts Andy’s legs and plops down beside her, dropping her legs across his lap.

“Is it too late to kick her out?” Gemma asks, sitting on a barstool. Her legs swing side-to-side like pendulums.

“Think so,” Harry says, holding his wine out to Andy.

She takes it and has two sips before handing it back.

“But,” Harry says, not to Gemma but directly to her. “We’re not going to let her get to us, right? Music, not war.”

Andy stares back at him, lips pouted. He sets his hand on her knee and pats, resting his head back against the window.

“Hey, Bee,” Gemma says.

Andy looks at her.

“How was it working with Louis Tomlinson?” Gemma asks, resting her chin in her palm.

Andy smiles. “He’s cool."

“He’s odd,” Harry adds with another drink of wine.

“You’re the only one who thinks so,” Andy murmurs.

“I’ve read articles about him,” Harry fires back. “He’s got that massive house of his, all that money, and he’s just alone. No wife. No friends.”

“ _Wife?_ ” Gemma gasps. “You think he’s straight?”

“Maybe? I don't know,” Harry answers. “But that’s exactly my point. No one knows, because he’s never _with_ anyone. He doesn’t seem to have a personal life at all.”

“Everyone's got a personal life,” his mum chimes in, removing her casserole from the oven. She pulls off her oven mitts. “But some people like to keep theirs private.”

“Can’t fault him for that,” Harry says, polishing off his wine. “I’d be his secret lover if he asked.”

“ _No_ ,” Andy groans. “No, no, no. Dad, you can’t flirt with him or anything. Everyone hates me already. If they even think something's going on between you two, you’ll just make it a million times worse.”

“A little dramatic,” Harry mumbles. He holds up two fingers and squints at the insignificant space between them. “Just a little bit.”

“Promise me you won’t flirt with him or give him your number,” Andy says.

“You make me sound so desperate. I’m offended.”

“You _are_ desperate,” Andy says. “No offence.”

“Yikes,” Gemma says. “I think that’s the cue for more wine!”

“You wound me,” Harry says to Andy, pressing a hand to his heart.

“Please promise me?” Andy says again. “Louis Tomlinson is off limits.”

“I was _joking_ ,” Harry says, pushing her legs off his lap. He stands. “As I already said, I think he’s odd and secretive. Gorgeous? Yes. But odd and secretive. Believe me, I’m not interested.”

Some commotion at the front door saves him from the rest of that conversation. He fills his glass with more wine while Robin, his dad, enters with Gemma's two-year-old son in his arms, and Gemma’s boyfriend, Ralph, trailing after them. Harry greets them all with the rest of his family and takes the toddler, Alfie, into his arms.

“Found someone who truly loves me,” Harry says, pressing a kiss to the boy’s cheek. He gives Andy a sideways glance. “Why can’t you be this small again?”

“Because I’m a musician now,” Andy says.

Harry smiles, beginning to sway with Alfie in his arms. “That’s the spirit,” he says, shooting her a wink. “Why don’t we have any music on?”

Andy heads over to the record player and starts, as usual, with Prince. His mum starts swaying to the beat while slicing up her casserole. Gemma sets the table and hums along. Andy plays her air guitar.

Soon enough they’re all seated and started on their dinner, their varying discussion on politics and current events, and always, lots of laughter. For now, the band and even Louis Tomlinson, are forgotten.

†

They enter through the flower shop, although there is a separate entrance that leads straight to the upstairs flat. Harry likes to check that everything is still in one piece before he retires. Andy heads to the back and up the stairs. Harry locks the shop door behind him. He checks that all the blinds have been pulled down. The pipes are all off. The register is closed and covered. Then he heads upstairs.

Andy stands in their solitary bathroom, already changed into pyjamas. He steps into his room, sinks down onto his bed with a heavy sigh and kicks off his shoes. He changes himself into night clothes and slips into the bathroom and steps beside her at the sink.

“I didn’t mean what I said about you being desperate,” Andy murmurs, tossing a dirty makeup removing wipe into the bin. Instantly, she looks 16 again, and not years older like she’s been going for lately. As the youngest in her band, Harry gets it. But it still scares him sometimes how he’ll look at her and think he’s been asleep for the last two or three years.

Harry glances into the mirror and meets her pale green eyes. “I know,” he says, voice muffled by the toothbrush jammed in his mouth.

Andy hovers by the door, leaning her head against the frame. Her curly hair is a tragedy, falling this way and that, exactly like his own. Harry rinses, stores his toothbrush away, and looks at her expectantly.

“I don’t want you to be alone all your life, you know?”

Harry sighs, slipping through the door past her. “Not this again.”

“You’re almost 40.”

Harry swivels on his feet and stares wide-eyed at her. “I’m _33_.”

“Which is close to 35, which is halfway to 40,” Andy says on her way into her room across the hall.

Harry rolls his eyes all the way around his sockets and starts folding his duvet down his mattress.

Andy calls to him, “You should go on Match.com.”

“Go to sleep,” he says in reply.

She comes back into his room, sticking her retainer into her mouth. “I move out in a _week_.”

“I’m aware."

“Then you’re going to be all alone and miserable--”

“Don’t forget desperate,” Harry says, crawling into bed and collapsing into his pillow.

“I said I didn’t mean that,” Andy replies. He can hear the pout in her voice even if he isn’t looking at her.

Harry takes a breath and opens his eyes. “What are you trying to say?” he mumbles tiredly.

“I’m worried about you. When I leave, you’ll be alone,” Andy says. “That’s all. I really do want you to find someone. Not Louis Tomlinson, but like--”

“Jesus. I don’t even _know_ him, Andy,” Harry says. “But if it makes you feel better, as impossible as it is, I swear--” He sets his hand on his heart. “I will absolutely not flirt or attempt to date your new boss.”

“Great. But seriously,” Andy says, plopping down on his mattress. “I feel bad about leaving you.”

Harry sits upright. “Don’t,” he says, shaking his head. “Please don’t. You’re going to be _big_. I want that for you. You leaving and following your dream doesn’t make me sad. That’s not possible.”

“Why can’t you go on Match.com?”

Harry huffs a laugh. “Because I’m not desperate.”

“I didn’t--”

“I know,” Harry stops her. “But I mean it. There’s nothing wrong with being desperate, in my opinion. Sometimes people get to a point where they crave love so badly that’s how they feel and I think that’s only human. I’m just not there yet.”

Andy doesn’t stop with the frowning.

“Plus,” Harry says, flicking her nose. “Things have been going pretty well with Gemma’s co-worker.”

“The Tory?” Andy questions, cringing. “Tell me you're joking.”

Harry gives her a look. “Politics aside, he’s funny sometimes. And he mentioned wanting to have drinks, so...” He shrugs. “I’m not hopeless.”

Andy’s lips twitch.

Harry lifts his arms and wiggles his fingers. “Okay, let’s hug it out.”

She crawls into his arms, wrapping her own around his waist and setting her head against his shoulder. He squeezes her, resting his chin atop her curly hair.

“I’m kind of scared,” she mumbles after a moment. “Which means, like, really scared.”

“About what?”

“Leaving. Not just for you but me too,” Andy says. “Those girls don’t like me. I don’t know what I did but they don’t like me.”

“They don’t know you,” Harry replies. “Right now, they’re threatened by you, maybe. All they’ve got to go on is how talented you are and that scares them. But they’ll get to know, babe. I promise. And then things will be better.”

“You think?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t,” he says.

She laughs softly, squeezing him a bit tighter. He presses a kiss to her forehead and releases her.

“Good night, love.”

“Night, Dad,” Andy says, crawling off the mattress. “See you in the morning.”

“You too,” he says, burrowing down into his sheets, pulling the duvet up to his chin. Andy shuts the door behind herself and a second later, he hears her door close too.

Parenting in an odd twisted way is a little fucked up. You grow up thinking love at first sight is impossible, and then some doctor puts this squirming alien lifeform in your arms and you’re ready, willing, and able to take a bullet for it.

Lying to your children is fucked up too. But it’s one of the first things Harry learned to do as a father. It’s possibly the one he does most.

When Andy asks him if he’s lonely, it’s his job to tell her 'no'.

When she asks if he wants her to stay here forever, he has to lie and tell her 'no'.

†

Let it be known and written on record that it takes Louis Tomlinson only one rehearsal and a half to finally snap.

They’ve moved to a different room with more natural light as if that will inspire peace amongst the band. He’s wearing light-wash jeans, a grey T-shirt, and a black beanie. Considering the promise he made to Andy, Harry doesn’t stare at him for more than two seconds at a time (three, if he’s feeling rebellious). The point is that Louis is dressed down and clearly ready for serious progress and an hour into their rehearsal, they’ve gotten nowhere.

“Enough,” he says suddenly, holding up a hand.

The girls stop playing. Harry breaks his rule to watch Louis steadily, breath held like the rest of the room.

Except Rose, of course.

“Why not give me my own piece to play and I’ll show you I’m good?" she says. "That I’m _better_.”

Harry makes what he thinks is a tiny sound of disbelief but when he looks, Rachel is glaring at him from two seats away. Down below, Louis starts massaging his forehead. Rachel takes that as her opportunity to stand and speak.

“They each deserve a chance to show you what they’re cut out for,” she says, her arms folded like her sister’s. “It’s ridiculous that this has come down to some sort of competition. But if it’s a competition, let them battle it out. Stop forcing them to work together when you’ve already pitted them against each other.”

A few parents nod their heads in agreement. The whole time, Louis stands with his back to them, his forehead in his palm.

“Mr. Tomlinson,” Rachel says. “How are you going to get this band in order?”

Louis turns. “Leave.”

Harry’s eyes widen. A hush falls over the room. Louis and Rachel’s eyes lock.

“In fact,” Louis says. “Not just yet.”

He looks at the girls and the parents both. “This is how it works when you step into this room, into this building -- _my_ building. They’re your children or your siblings, whoever. But when they’re here, they’re _my_ band. And every decision that’s made in regards to this band is _mine_ to make.

“Let me be really clear: you all are here as spectators and that’s it. You don’t make suggestions. You don’t make demands. You don’t stir up drama and discord.” He looks right at Rachel when he says it. “If your concern is for their success--” He points towards the girls. “Let me do my job. Because it’s _my_ job, not yours.”

No one speaks. Harry doesn’t know if anyone breathes. Andy glances at him and he widens his eyes.

“ _Now_ , you may leave. All of you,” Louis says, gaze sweeping across the parents, meeting each of their eyes full-on. When he meets Harry’s, it feels as if the temperature drops, pulled down to freezing by the ice blue of his gaze.

Rachel apparently doesn’t know when to quit. “Mr Tomlinson--”

“I won’t repeat myself,” Louis cuts her off. He turns to the burly man in the corner of the room, who Harry believes is his personal guard, and says, “See that they all make it to the lifts.”

The guard steps forward, holding a hand out towards the door as if they don’t all know where it is. They all begin to rise. Harry stands, eyes glued to the side of Louis’ head. As annoying as he finds Rachel, he feels a degree of distaste for Louis in that moment too.

Harry isn’t always on his best behaviour but when he is, he likes to be credited for it, not punished. Being lumped in with Rachel after sitting quietly all morning is a slight he might never forget.

He waves to Andy on his way out and sends one final glare in the direction of Mr Tomlinson.

†

Troye places a cup of tea down on the worktop for Harry, along with a fresh golden croissant, both still steaming. “Tell me about him. What’s he like?”

“He’s a bit of a dick,” Harry says, promptly. He lifts a fresh vase into the sink basin. “That’s all you need to know.”

With a twist of the tap, cold water begins pouring into the vase while Harry lifts his teacup to his mouth. He nearly succeeds at leaving the topic be, but no one has given him a chance to vent about Louis until now and it all just tumbles out.

“He’s sort of arrogant and unwilling to take suggestions, which I guess is his right. He wasn’t particularly in the wrong either. But--” Harry narrows his eyes. “The way he spoke to everyone like he’s so accustomed to commanding people-- He made all the parents leave rehearsals, yeah? And then two days ago, I got an email saying we’re no longer allowed to come back.”

Troye winces. “Was it that one woman’s fault? The Mega Bitch?”

“Is that what Andy’s calling her?” Harry asks.

“That and some other things too,” Troye says, smiling.

Harry laughs, lifting the full vase from the sink and setting it on the worktop. “It _was_ technically her fault and that’s why if anyone was asked to leave, it should have just been her.”

Troye takes a bite of the croissant Harry hasn’t touched. “But what about how gorgeous he is? How mind-blowing was he up close?”

Harry scoffs. “Didn’t get very close to him. But I guess the pictures don’t really do him justice. Anyway, that doesn’t matter now. He ruined it for me. I can’t even appreciate him aesthetically because he ruined it.”

The shop bell rings. Troye hops down from the worktop as a patron enters through the glass door, a red-haired woman who comes by frequently. Harry is fortunate enough to have mostly independent customers, like the ones who come in for their weekly bundle of sunflowers or a new tin of plant food and don’t require much help. It’s jading sometimes however when he’s alone at the shop and wanting conversation.

As expected, the woman starts browsing the bouquets they already have on display with only a small smile sent in Harry's direction. He gets back to the vase he’s preparing for delivery.

“How does Andy feel about him?” Troye asks.

For a second, Harry doesn’t know what he’s talking about, his mind having wandered. Tucking a few stems of hydrangea into the vase, he answers, “She adores him, and I think he feels the same of her. Aside from him wanting to make her lead vocalist and guitarist, you should see the way he looked at her during auditions. Like she was already a star. The other girls think she’s a favourite because it’s clear she is. After just two practices.”

“He seems like a clever man to me,” Troye says.

“I guess he does,” Harry mumbles, tucking a sunflower stem between his lips. He repositions a few of the flowers and sticks the sunflower in where it fits best. He smiles at his finished work: a simple mixture of sunflowers, hydrangeas and three white peonies. With a sigh, he says, “So long as he doesn’t fuck her over, I don’t really care.”

He throws a glance towards the woman still strolling around the shop. But it doesn’t seem like she’s heard him. He slides the vase over to Troye. “Let’s wrap this one up. Needs to be delivered before noon.”

Troye takes the vase off to the side. The woman approaches the register with her bouquet.

“Nice choice,” Harry says to her.

She smiles. “I wanted something brighter than the last one. I had red roses and hydrangea.”

“Next week, I’ll have fresh yellow chrysanthemums in,” Harry says. “Maybe I can throw in some of those with some red roses for you then. Might be a brighter combination.”

“We’ll see how long these last me first,” the woman says. She hands off her card and Harry takes it. He hands her the receipt to sign while slipping her bouquet into a cellophane bag.

“Thanks for coming,” Harry says when she takes the bouquet.

The woman hesitates a moment. “I read an article recently in the Sun about your daughter,” she says. “Congratulations to both of you.”

Stunned, Harry simply looks her. He swallows, forcing his tongue to remember what it’s meant to do. “Thank you very much,” he says, smiling. “I’ll let her know she's got some support.”

“Please do,” the woman says. “Have a good day.”

“Same to you.”

He watches her leave and leans against the opposing worktop, lifting his teacup for another sip.

Troye comes from the back a second later. “Van’s all loaded. I’m off for deliveries, and then class,” he says. “See you this afternoon, H.”

“Have fun,” Harry says. Seconds later, he’s alone.

He’s always alone. He likes to think he has a well-sized circle but everyone within it is often preoccupied with something else. Troye, his one employee, is also a student. Niall works tirelessly to be the lawyer he’s dreamed of becoming. Gemma is busy. His mum is busy. And his sole child is standing on the brink of stardom.

He spends his days, sunrise to sunset, surrounded by flowers and baked goods, which obviously isn’t a terrible fate but it’s quiet. Flowers and baked goods don’t talk. Silence leaves too much time for deep thought. As of late, deep thought breeds questions. And questions almost never end in answers.

For instance, what is he supposed to do when more strangers come to know his daughter? What if all of them aren’t kind? What does he do when fame attempts to swallow his only child whole?

He turns and looks at himself in the mirror lining the wall behind the register.

“Relax,” he says tonelessly.

He thinks it helps.

†

**AUGUST 2016**

“Is that it?” Harry asks.

Andy scans the boxes stuffed into the boot of the Jeep. “Think so.”

Harry nods. “Ready to go then?”

“I guess,” she says with a shrug. She gives him that funny look again and Harry looks away because he can’t deal with this. Not yet. He pulls the boot door closed.

“Come on then. Let’s try to beat the traffic.”

They climb into the car. Harry jams his keys into the ignition and slides his sunnies over his eyes. Andy does the same and pulls her seatbelt across her body. She starts fiddling with the radio right away. Driving without music is like driving without petrol. Not as limiting but equally jarring.

“Did I tell you Mercy is bringing her dog?” Andy says ten minutes into the drive. They’ve been mostly silent, aside from singing along to Womanizer by Britney Spears. “She’s got a chihuahua named Petal.”

“How nice,” Harry says. “You could have brought Sam along.”

“I’ll come back for him,” Andy says. “I told him so before I left.”

Harry breathes a soft laugh. “He’ll have to keep me company for Netflix night.”

From the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Andy look at him. “I can come back for Netflix night.”

“No way. You should bond with the girls,” Harry says. “The whole point of moving in with them is to bond. Friday nights, you should spend doing each other’s hair.”

“Because that’s such a girl thing to do, right?”

Harry glances at her. “No, because it’s fun. _We_ do each other’s hair all the time.”

“Yes, but we’re weird. That’s not something girls do together. That’s not something fathers and daughters do together. No one sits around doing each other’s hair except us. ‘Cause we’re weird,” Andy concludes.

“Well, see if I ever braid your hair again.” Harry turns up the radio.

Andy twists the dial down.

“Stop it,” Harry says, turning it up again. “My radio. I’m driving, so my radio.”

“I hate this song,” Andy says. It’s a Kills song he doesn’t remember the name of. She starts pressing buttons, mostly to be a nuisance, and then they hear the familiar beat of Juke Box Hero and gasp. Harry slaps her hand away from the radio.

“Ow,” she whines. She reaches out and tugs on a tendril of his hair.

“I’m _driving_ ,” he says again, reaching for the volume dial to twist it all the way to the right.

While the song blasts from the speakers, they sing, loud enough to burst their lungs, with all the windows down, and their hair flying about their heads. Andy starts with her air guitar. She can’t hear a riff play without strumming along somehow. Harry drums his hands on the wheel and that’s how they pass the time, like they usually do, song after song after song.

†

Mercy’s chihuahua Petal is actually quite friendly for a chihuahua. Regrettably, Harry always bought into the stereotype about that particular breed being loud and mean. But Andy and this dog take to each other right away, so quickly that Sam, her bearded dragon back home, would be heartbroken. It’s just another reason on the long, long list of reasons why Harry resents her new flat.

It’s so much larger than necessary, even for four girls. Each bedroom is the size of Harry’s kitchen and living room combined. The kitchen is fitted with stainless steel appliances, granite worktops, and glossy tiled floors. Andy can’t even cook on her own. All of the gadgets like the flat screen television, the Xbox, and the Wii have come courtesy of the label. It all smells new, not mildewy like Harry’s flat had smelled when he moved in with Andy years ago.

He starts to panic when Mercy’s parents leave. Kendra’s parents stick around for a while after assembling her new bookshelf but eventually they leave as well. As awful as Harry finds Rachel, he’s a little grateful that she’s adamant about helping Rose unpack all of her things. Andy on the other hand is a little less proactive.

“Don’t you want to at least unpack your clothes?” Harry asks. He’s leaning against the door frame. He doesn’t want to go sit on the full-sized bed where Andy is reclined with Petal in her hands or over on that fucking chaise by the window. He just stands there looking like an oddly placed house plant.

“Nah,” Andy says. “Maybe tomorrow.”

Harry looks around at the bare walls. “You’re sure you don’t want your posters?”

Andy sits up looking around at the walls. “Maybe I’ll come by tomorrow and pick up a few of them.”

“It’ll have to wait until the weekend,” Harry says. “It’s a bit of a drive.”

Andy folds her legs up atop the bed and nods. “Maybe this weekend then.”

Harry looks around again. The room is so empty. Leaving her here feels like leaving her in a shoebox. Albeit a massive shoebox, but his point stands. The room lacks every bit of personality that has grown and thrived around Andy for years. The candy wrappers, the vast collection of lip gloss, the empty candle jars and a solitary one burning on her desk. The old records for their shared Crosley player. Her guitar propped in the corner surrounded by dirty socks and baseball caps littering the floor.

He feels his throat tighten and decides suddenly that he _has_ to leave. He won’t make it much longer anyhow.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get you a fancy bookshelf,” he says, voice lowered so that Kendra doesn’t hear. “Or a TV.”

Andy scoffs. “I've got my books.”

“Well, your grandparents are sending a cheque for you. So you can buy some things and decorate if you want,” Harry says. “I’ll drive up and bring it to you when it comes in the post.”

“That’s nice of them,” Andy says quietly.

Again, she looks at him in that funny way.

Again, she looks like she’s just starting primary school surrounded by children with a mum and a dad, squeezing Harry’s hand a little tighter in her own.

She looks like the nine-year-old who completed her first original song on guitar.

When she was twelve years old and had her first period, she cried on the phone with Gemma for hours locked in the loo and refused to talk to Harry because he was a 'boy' and he couldn’t understand and 'It’s not fair', she’d said. Harry listened through the door. 'Why don’t I have a mum?' He’ll never know what Gemma said to her. He just knows Andy came out of the loo with that look in her eyes and curled herself against Harry’s side to watch the rest of Golden Girls.

They’ve been here before. Time and time again, they find themselves in moments where they remember that it’s just them. Just Harry and Andy. Before and after anyone else, they have each other. But he has to go now.

“I have to go,” Harry says.

Her top and bottom lip twitch. “‘Kay.”

“Come here, Bee,” he says, and she climbs off the bed. He hugs her tightly, both arms around her shoulders, curly head against curly head. He kisses her forehead twice and lets her go. His shirt comes away wet from her tears.

“I love you. Have fun,” he says. “Ring me, or I’ll ring you and be annoying. Don’t make me be annoying.”

Her laugh is watery as she drags her palms over her eyes. “That’s enough of you.”

Harry smiles, rubbing his thumb over her dimple. “See you.”

“Love you, Dad.”

He waves to the other girls on the way out, even Rose and Rachel. He doesn’t know whether or not they wave back. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t slow down until he’s out of the flat and leaning against the walls of the lift. He squeezes his hand into a fist. The sharp pain of his nails against his palm distracts him from the stinging around his eyeballs.

He starts his car up and peels away from the kerb. His gaze rises to the rearview mirror. He keeps glancing into it until he can’t see the front of the building behind him. He’s too far away and his vision has begun to blur. He’s a mess. The corners of his eyes and the back of his throat burn. He pulls over to the side of the road, throws the car into park, and exhales.

Then he lifts the hem of his shirt over his face and allows himself a moment his daughter will never know about. Parenting is fucked up. You grow to love the speechless little wonder in your arms until they grow up and one day ask you to let them go.

And when that happens, you do as Harry does and you cry.

†

**SEPTEMBER 2016**

The nightclub, G-A-Y, bears the burden of hosting the band’s very first gig. Harry doesn’t use the term _burden_ lightly. He knows little about the band’s progress since that last rehearsal he witnessed over a month ago, except that Louis has the girls rehearsing every day and seeing a vocal coach regularly. Andy doesn’t give him much more detail than that. She says she wants him to be surprised.

Harry is one of the few people who actually likes surprises. A birthday party full of all his favorite people? Yes. A new car? Yes! A hefty cheque? Fuck _yes_. He looks forward to surprises. He looks forward to good things unknowingly coming his way.

Something tells him he’s not going to like this surprise.

He thinks of Andy and Rose duking it out on their guitars, enough to break their strings and give themselves blisters. He thinks of Rachel, who’s standing just a few feet away, scowling at him during that fateful rehearsal. None of this is breeding ground for improvement or success. Even the great and powerful Louis Tomlinson may not be enough to turn it all around.

Gemma bumps her shoulder against his. “You’re glaring.”

Harry blinks and looks at her. “At who?”

“No one,” Gemma says, swirling her straw around her cosmo. “But someone’s bound to think you’re looking at them eventually.”

Harry huffs, lifting his vodka soda from the table. “If this goes badly, we’ll have to make a speedy getaway. You go out and start the car. I’ll run up on stage and grab Andy.”

Gemma laughs. “Relax,” she says, meeting his gaze steadily. “Everything will be fine.”

“You don’t know that,” Harry says simply, which is his answer whenever someone tells him 'everything will be fine'. Everything is never fine. At least one thing is always wrong. His mum had proven so over fifteen years ago while speeding to the emergency room. She turned out to be very wrong.

“Niall’s here with Troye,” Gemma says suddenly.

Harry turns, looking for them near the door, and sees Louis instead. Niall and Troye are in his peripheral but he’s stuck looking at the other man for a moment. He’s standing alone, one hand hidden in his pocket, another cradling his phone. His eyes are directed at the screen. He’s not suited up tonight but he looks just as fine as he did then, wearing tight dark wash jeans and a ruby colored t-shirt. As alluring as he is, he manages to go undetected in his dim corner.

Niall’s arm comes around Harry's shoulders, successfully breaking his focus. “How sick is this?” he says. “All these people turning up for the girls?”

“It’s a nightclub, Niall,” Gemma says. “These people showed up to dance and get pissed.”

“That works too,” Niall says. He taps Troye. “Let’s get a drink.”

Harry’s eyes drift over to Louis again. There’s someone with him now, a dark-haired lad standing close with a beer bottle in his hand. Louis gestures with his hands as he explains something, pointing toward the stage or towards the door. The lad beside him nods and offers a comment here and there, but mostly he adds to the air of exclusivity that surrounds Louis at all times.

“You’re glaring again,” Gemma croons. “Only now you have an object of choice.”

Harry rolls his eyes and wraps his lips around his straw. “Leave me alone,” he mumbles.

He doesn’t know where Andy and the girls are. His text messages, for the most part, have been ignored, although Andy was kind enough to send back a smiley face when he mentioned he’d arrived. A small blessing. Troye talks them into dancing at least once. An oldie and a second round of booze urges them onto the dance floor. Harry has to take a break after five songs to use the loo. He leaves them still dancing and finds his way after asking the bartender for directions. He bypasses the urinal for a stall, always wary about attempting to aim when he’s under the slightest influence.

When he’s finished, he steps out and freezes for just one second before proceeding forward.

Louis glances up into the mirror and their eyes meet. He smiles politely. Harry smiles back, pumping soap into his palm. He scrubs his hands, glancing up into the mirror again and their eyes meet once more.

“Harry, right?”

“Yes,” Harry says, cutting off the tap. He reaches for a towel, dries his hands and turns to face him quickly. “It’s good to see you again, Louis.”

“Same to you,” Louis says. “Are you excited for tonight?”

“Nervous. But also excited, yeah,” Harry says.

“Same here, honestly. Although I think I’m more nervous on their behalf.”

It’s an odd thought to have in the men’s toilets but Harry decides then that he likes Louis’ voice. It echoes somewhat in the hollow space and comes back just as softly as it left Louis’ mouth.

“Why’s that?” Harry asks. “You don’t think they’re ready to perform?”

Louis shakes his head. “No, I think they’re more than ready,” he says. “Andy, I think, has been ready for a while. When I say I’m nervous on their behalf, I mean that I know how they must be feeling, having done this myself years ago. Every performance made me nervous, but none like the first.”

Someone else comes into the loo and looks at them full of judgment for loitering in spots that they shouldn’t. Harry can’t blame them. He hates when people do it too. It’s just that leaving the loo means ending this conversation and you wouldn’t believe it but Harry’s actually enjoying himself.

“You’ll have to tell me more about it sometime,” Harry says. “Your One Direction days.”

Louis laughs. Another pleasant, ricocheting sound. “I’ll bore you but sure.” He turns starting toward the door. Harry follows him and slips behind him into the darkness of the club. Louis glances at him again with a smile. “Enjoy the show.”

“You too,” Harry says. He finds the others, sitting down now at the table, nursing their drinks. His phone buzzes when he joins them.

**_I see you!_ **

It’s from Andy. Harry looks around.

**_I’m backstage! Coming out soon!_ **

Harry starts to reply when yet another message comes through.

**_I got sick all over the car on the way._ **

Harry laughs. **Just don’t do it again on stage.**

**_I’ll try. If I don’t manage I’ll be aiming for you._ **

**That’s how you treat your #1 fan??**

**_Of course. Always with the best. :)_ **

Harry looks again toward the stage. He finishes off the rest of his drink while his foot begins to bob anxiously. He scans the club for Louis and spots him a little closer to the stage. Oddly enough, his presence is comforting. Then he starts moving forward and mounts the stage and Harry’s nerves are thrown again into disarray.

“I think it’s starting,” Gemma says.

Someone hands Louis a mic and the DJ brings his next mix to an end.

“Hello everyone,” Louis says into the mic.

A myriad of people scream and whistle for him. They sing his name and Louis looks for a moment like Christ greeting his flock. Harry slurps determinedly on his drink rather than stare at him. The eyes are the gateway to a lot of things. For Harry, they sometimes lead to flirting and flirting leads to slipping his business card into front pockets, and the business card leads to… A lot of things. All of which are forbidden when it comes to Louis Tomlinson.

“I’ve brought a very special group of girls with me tonight. This is their first gig as a band after over a month of really hard work. So please, please give them a warm welcome,” Louis says. He swings his hand toward the wings of the stage. “These are The Wonderlands!”

Kendra comes out first and gets situated at her drums. Mercy is next, entering with her bass guitar, followed by Rose with her own guitar. And finally, Andy slips from behind the curtains into the spotlights. Louis puts the mic right in her hand.

The right side of her hair has been plaited, which is a style Harry is accustomed doing for her. He feels jaded about everything these days. The fact that she has someone else to plait her hair is no exception.

She wears black jeans and a loose black tank top that’s shorter in the front than it is in the back. She’s also sporting a new pair of wine-colored Doc Martens. Her glittering red Les Paul catches all the spotlights as she heads to the front of the stage and sticks the microphone into its holder.

“Good night everyone,” she says, smiling. “I’m Andy Styles.”

Niall, Gemma, and Troye scream for her. Harry’s tongue has forgotten itself again.

She puts her hand up above her brows to shield against the spotlights. “Think that’s my family,” she says with a laugh. She turns and looks at Rose, who approaches her own mic.

Rose waves. “Hello! I’m Rose Mooney.”

The crowd whoops and howls for her.

“On the drums is Kendra Rossi, who’s feeling a bit poorly tonight. Not too much talking for her,” Andy says. The crowd cheers even louder now. Everyone loves an underdog. Kendra answers with a little drum beat.

“And I’m Mercy Upton on bass,” Mercy says, waving.

Andy turns to her mic again. “On behalf of the four of us, I’d like to thank you for being here tonight, even if you just came to dance. Good news is that we like to dance too.”

Troye whistles loudly at that, fingers tucked between his lips.

Andy smiles, taking the neck of her guitar in one hand, adorned with silver rings, and curving her other around the mic. “This is our first time performing live so go easy on us, yeah?”

Harry glances around at all the faces, all the eyes on her, looking for a scowl or some sign of displeasure. What would he even do if he found one? Pull a roundhouse kick on them? Drag them into the back alley for bare knuckle boxing? He’d be tempted but no, most likely not.

“So, we’re going to play a few songs for you all. Hope you enjoy them.” Andy adjusts her in-ear and the strap of her guitar. She nods her head to Kendra to start up a count. Kendra taps her drumstick against the side of a cymbal and Andy keeps nodding her head to the beat, mouth approaching the mic. Her eyes slip closed and then flutter open.

“Oh, right,” she says, grinning. “And we’re The Wonderlands.”

With that, she starts on her strings, playing a riff Harry recognizes immediately from the opening of '[1901 by Phoenix](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MJXWN0o3KfY)'. Her eyes are on her strings and her fingers move flawlessly. Always flawless and effortless. He never expected less of her. His qualms had been with the order and congruity of the band itself. But Kendra has the beat down perfectly. Mercy is one with the bassline. Rose’s own guitar is a sister and a friend to Andy’s. They work together, all of the instruments, all of the girls, until they hit the note they're looking for.

Andy releases her guitar, allowing Rose to pick up the guitar line. She opens her mouth to the mic and her voice flows free.

Harry grins and he’s on his feet before he knows it. Gemma, Niall, and Troye beside him are too, swaying to the beat, hands lifting to the roof of the club. Harry can’t even focus on dancing or singing along, his eyes glued to the stage. He’s in awe. He hates to be too proud or too boastful, but he has a goddamn right to be. Into this world, he brought a star. He doesn’t mean that in the rock star sense. He means an honest-to-god spectacle of glittering space dust.

Andy shakes her curly hair around, foot tapping the stage. She moves her hands in the air like she’s casting a spell, and each time she hits a high note, it’s almost as if she is, like she’s charming everyone here.

"Falling, falling, falling, falling," she sings, and all of them are.

She grabs her guitar again between one verse and the next to play hard with her band. Her face is split by this grin he doesn’t think he’s seen before, not even when they played their own instruments together. There’s something about the spotlights, the shouts of the clubgoers, and her bandmates surrounding her that brings a truly radiant, matchless smile to her face.

He doesn’t even know when one song fades into the next. They play this sick rock version of 'Love On Top' by Beyonce. They play 'Counting Stars' by OneRepublic. They play 'Don’t Stop Believing' by Journey. Before he knows it, it’s over. It’s over and he stands awestruck, watching her take a bow with her bandmates, watching her blow kisses to the crowd, watching her depart the stage.

 _This_ is the moment when he truly feels furthest from her. This is the onslaught of her ascension to fame. He feels her slipping from his fingers and yet somehow, he’s never been more proud.


	2. Chapter 2

**OCTOBER 2016**

The upside of a lonely flat is the freedom to walk around starkers. Harry and Andy sometimes lounged in T-shirts and pants, but with the space to himself, he forgoes even those. He takes his showers, dries himself off, and embraces the air against his bare bum like humans were always meant to.

Two beers into Finding Nemo, the door buzzes twice. The blanket around his body functions like wings when he pulls it away to stare down at his naked crotch. With a sigh, he pushes himself up to his feet and stalks slowly to the door.

“Hello?” he says, thumb to the button of the intercom.

“Have you got clothes on?” Niall replies, voice grainy through the old system.

“No,” Harry answers, taking a sip of his beer. “As a single parent whose child has left the nest, I no longer need them.”

“You do now. I’m outside and I’ve brought a friend.”

Curious, he lets Niall and his ‘friend’ up while he pulls on a T-shirt and a pair of trackies.

The front door opens just as he finishes and rounds the corner to the hallway. He comes to a stop, his eyes widening. “What the fuck,” he gasps. “ _Liam_.”

Harry feels like he’s been thrown into an episode of Ghost Adventures because the man on the other side of his hallway has mostly been a ghost for the past year. He hasn’t seen Liam Payne since he moved to LA with his girlfriend.

Every now and then, there’s a phone call or a postcard from one of the many places Liam has visited. When news of Andy’s signing reached him, Liam sat on Skype with her for nearly an hour. As her godfather, he tries to be as active in her life as he can, but being a DJ in a city like LA keeps him more than busy. Harry has scarcely heard his voice or seen his face lately, but having him in person truly feels like a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.

He hugs him. They throw their arms around each other like bears and squeeze and pat, laughing into the hollow of each other's necks.

“What are you _doing_ here?” Harry says, drawing back to look at him. He pats his bearded cheeks.

Liam sighs, glancing at Niall. “Well. Me and Noelle broke up.”

“ _No_.” Harry’s eyes widen. “Why? How?”

“No time for each other,” Liam says with a shrug. “She wants to move to Paris for work. It’s just gotten too complicated.”

“Jesus, I’m so sorry,” Harry says, squeezing his shoulders.

“It’s fine.” Liam shakes his head. “We’re still figuring out what to do about the house, so… I just needed some time away.”

Harry pulls him in for another hug, glancing at Niall over his shoulder. “Did you bring your stuff?”

“Always,” Niall says.

Harry curls one arm around Liam’s shoulders and shuts the front the door with the other. Niall follows them both to the living room. It’s late on a Sunday night unfortunately. Tomorrow, he’ll need to be up at least by nine. But if he has to sacrifice sleep for his friends, he’ll do that.

They spark up a blunt, pull leftovers and beers from the fridge and gather around the coffee table.

“How’s Louis Tomlinson?” Liam asks after he's rambled enough about himself and looks alarmingly close to tears.

Harry feels unprepared for the question. “Good?” He picks at the Budweiser label. “Don’t know much about him, surprisingly. He’s Andy’s new favourite person and I know absolutely nothing.”

Liam laughs. “Jealous?”

“Yes, but it’s got nothing to do with that,” Harry says, propping his chin atop his fist. “I just think it would be nice to have a better grasp on the person steering her career.”

“Can’t be that hard to talk to him,” Liam says.

“You haven’t met him,” Harry replies. “He’s imposing and reserved and—”

“You’re attracted to him,” Niall adds, laughing around the rim of his beer bottle.

Harry turns and stares at him. “That also has nothing to do with it. I’ve got no problem talking to men I’m attracted to.”

“We all know that,” Liam murmurs.

“What is this?” Harry asks, looking between the two of them. “I invite you into my home and you make me the enemy?”

Niall and Liam chuckle. Harry leans back with one hand spread behind him, smiling as he drains the rest of his beer.

“If you’re so good at talking to men, you should talk to him,” Liam says. “Especially him. If you’re concerned about Andy, the best thing you can do is make him your friend.”

“I’ll consider it,” Harry replies, and in the next second, he considers it and decides it's never going to happen. He nods to the little bag of weed on the coffee table. “How about another one?”

“I’m in,” Liam says.

Later, when Niall is snoring on the floor, Liam murmurs, “I’m done with dating. Birds and blokes both. I’m done with love.”

His head is reclined on the couch cushion with a hand resting over his eyes. Harry stills when he sees the tear slip down his cheek. Grown men cry just as often as anyone else, but the world too often tells you the opposite and so when it happens, it stuns.

“Don’t say that,” Harry says, patting his knee. “You’re too young to say that.”

“I’m over thirty.”

“Then there’s no hope for any of us. All of us are single and over 30.”

Liam lifts his hand away. “You’re not seeing anyone?”

“I’ve got a date with this bloke next weekend,” Harry says. “I don’t know if he’s long-term material but he’s nice looking. And I haven’t got my leg over in months.”

“Good enough,” Liam says with a breath of laughter. “Out of all of us, I always thought you’d be the one who got married first. I still do. When you find someone, they’ll be _The_ One.”

Liam forgets that Harry has a daughter, which changes the dating scene significantly. But he’s drunk and high enough to be allowed his idealistic impressions.

Harry pats his knee again, like his mum used to pat his own back as a boy. “Both of us, yeah? We’ll find them.”

Liam’s smile is soft and sleepy. It’s the last one he has for Harry before he drifts off. Harry runs his fingers through Liam’s hair until he’s too tired to do so. He leaves the beer bottles and empty food containers where they are on the table. He helps Niall to Andy’s bed and brings a quilt for Liam on the couch. With the little strength he has left, he crawls into his own bed and promptly falls asleep.

†

Following the gig at G-A-Y and their dizzying bout of success, The Wonderlands are more desperate than ever to keep performing, travelling and building their repertoire. It means that soon enough Harry won’t see much of Andy at all, and as it stands, he sees very little.

He truly loves that Liam is there to stay with them but it doesn’t help that the one weekend Andy comes home, her time ends up split between Harry, Liam _and_ her grandparents. Instead of working the shop with him or reading a book in the corner by the lilies, she’s gone for shopping and lunch with Liam.

Harry passes the lonesome morning pretending he isn’t lonely at all. It’s odd with loneliness. You’d think he’d grown accustomed to it by now. Somehow he hasn't calloused to it like he has with heartache and disappointment.

He has to put music on. He always worries he’ll disturb his patrons when he does, but the quiet is bothering him more than usual today. He brings the Crosley player down from the flat and the record still inside — an old Whitney Houston album. ‘How Will I Know’ is perfect for wallowing in singledom _and_ swinging his hips around. The best songs are the ones that allow you to feel whatever you’re feeling and still dance the way you want to.

He fills a vase of frothy white peonies with yellow craspedias and turns it slowly on the worktop. His eyes are narrowed because _something_ is missing. “How will I know if he really loves me,” he sings softly, leaving his space behind the counter to peruse the barrels and cylinders of flowers on display. “I say a prayer with every heartbeat.”

He drums his fingers on his thigh to the beat, zoning in on one particular flower. He smiles, pulling three stems gently from the rest. Vibrant orange ranunculus bring the bouquet to a stunning completion. With no patrons in the shop, he moves unreservedly to the rhythm of the song.

“Falling in love is all bittersweet,” he sings, grabbing the broom. He sweeps up the strays from his bouquet on the floor, pushing them all into a corner for later. He never throws them in with the rubbish with everything else. He tosses them into the garden where they belong. It might be silly, but it’s a show of his morals.

The shop bell rings behind him. He glances up into the mirror as he washes his hands. For the second time, in a similar occurrence, he freezes. Then he turns.

“Louis?”

Yes, Louis, as in Louis Tomlinson. Right there at the door of his shop, wearing dark jeans, a light blue T-shirt and a smile.

“Hi,” he says.

Harry approaches the worktop. “Hi.”

“How are you?” Louis asks, stepping further into the shop.

“Great. Working…” Harry says with a glance around at the flowers.

“I’m not disturbing you, am I?”

“No,” Harry says. “It’s a workday. People don’t usually come in at noon on a workday.”

“Right,” Louis says. “This is a nice setup. It’s beautiful.” He takes a little turn on his heels, nodding. “Smells nice too.”

Harry smiles, his brows furrowed. “Thank you,” he says. “Don’t usually get comments about the smell.”

“It’s odd. It smells the way you’d expect plants to but also something sugary?”

“Oh, it’s the biscuits.”

“Biscuits?”

Harry holds his hand out to the left of the counter where a glass display case houses an array of biscuits, from chocolate chip to peanut butter. “I'm primarily a florist but I bake sometimes too. When my grandmum owned this place, she’d have a treat each week for sale, so I kept it up when I took over. Come for your flowers, leave with something sweet.”

“Smart nan,” Louis says, smiling. “I’ll have to buy a few before I go.”

“As many as you like,” Harry says. They look at each other across the small span of the worktop.

“Is everything alright?” Harry asks, suddenly concerned, as he should’ve been in the first place. When a big music executive shows up at the door unannounced, most people would ask questions first and offer biscuits later.

“Oh, yeah, Everything’s fine,” Louis says. “Is Andy here?”

“No, sorry. She’s out with family for the day.”

“I just came to bring this.” Louis lifts the black gift bag in his hands. “A gift for each of the girls as congrats on their first gig.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Harry says, smiling. “And delivering them in person too?”

“It’s nice to get out of the city for a little while,” Louis says with a shrug. He sets the bag down on the worktop. “Whenever she gets in, just let her know the label is proud of her and all that.”

“Will do,” Harry says. A beat of silence passes between them. “Would you like tea?”

The question truly falls out of his mouth, as if it were a book positioned too close to the edge of a shelf.

“I was just heading up to have lunch,” Harry explains. “I don’t know if you’ve eaten yet but you’re welcome to whatever.”

Louis visibly hesitates. Harry wishes he could pick the question up, dust it off and put it back where it belongs in the untouched corners of his head.

“Sure,” Louis says. “A cuppa would be great.”

All this time, Whitney Houston is still crooning in the background. Harry moves the needle from the disk to silence her. He steps out from behind the worktop again to lock the shop door, feeling Louis’ eyes on him as he passes him twice. He lifts the gift bag from the worktop and says to him, “Follow me.”

It’s a good thing Harry keeps the place clean. Not because his friends have a habit of dropping in on him, but because tidiness is the one thing he’s always been able to manage on his own. He leads Louis up the stairs to the flat and holds the door open for him.

“Welcome,” he says.

Louis looks around, hands folded together in front of himself. He feels even more imposing here. He’s not a large man at all, shorter than Harry and slender without his fancy suits on. But he commands whatever tiny space is made available to him, including Harry’s home.

“Smells the same,” Louis notes with a small smile.

Harry laughs softly. “I must smell like plants and sugar too.”

“I imagine you would, which is good.”

Harry hovers by the door just looking at him. “I’ll put the hob on. How do you take your tea?”

“Just a splash of milk, thank you.”

Harry leaves him standing there. Rounding the corner to the kitchen, he hears the complaint of a chair against the floorboards and pictures Louis sitting down, making himself comfortable. Quickly, Harry pulls two mugs down from the cupboards and gets the tea kettle started.

His stomach rumbles embarrassingly, even if no one but him hears it. He heats some leftover pasta for himself and cleans his plate before the water even boils.

Louis is staring out the window overlooking the street below when Harry returns. The sunlight on his face compliments him once again. Of all things, it appears to be a friend of his. Harry sets a mug down for Louis and takes a seat at the table.

He draws a breath. “So, I meant to say last week, congratulations on pulling the whole gig together,” he says. “It was amazing. Much better than any of us imagined it being.”

“Thank you.” Louis smiles around the rim of his mug. He places it down and takes a second to speak. His eyes flicker upwards and meet Harry’s full on. Up close and in this light, they're impossibly blue. Harry suddenly craves a day at the beach.

“Last week, I also meant to say— I wanted to apologise for that last rehearsal you were there for and for how I spoke to everyone.”

Harry finds himself shaking his head, despite how much he had complained. “I think it was necessary.”

“I do too,” Louis says with a short laugh. “But I think there was a nicer way of going about it.”

“You were under pressure. Some of us weren’t making it very easy for you,” Harry says. “And speaking of which, I’m actually happy you got me out of there before Rachel made an attempt on my life.”

Louis chokes a bit on his tea, and then smiles, so purely Harry stills. Making him laugh without restraint becomes Harry's new goal in that moment.

“Seriously, we were hitting it off quite well and by the next practice I swear she was plotting murder," Harry says.

Louis lifts both brows. “You were interested in her?”

Confusion wrinkles Harry’s brow until the question and its answer clarify in his head.

“ _No_. God, no. I meant as friends or acquaintances,” Harry says. “No, women and I aren’t really a thing.”

“I see,” Louis says, running his thumb around the rim of his mug. “After Andy’s mum?”

“No,” Harry says. “Since the beginning of time, really.”

Louis’ eyes narrow as he thinks. “I’m sorry. This is absolutely none of my business.”

“I don’t mind at all. Ask away if you've got questions,” Harry says. “We’re not in your office.”

Louis’ lips twitch. “I’m just curious about you and Andy’s mum? If you’ve always been gay…”

“She was also gay,” Harry says. He has to laugh seeing the look on Louis’ face. “It’s a really long, insane story.”

Louis folds his arms across his chest. “I’ve got time,” he says. “If you feel like sharing...”

Harry hesitates, not because he doesn’t. He’s just looking for the right place to start.

“Andy’s mum, Cassie, and I grew up in a small, very closed-minded town. I was soft and uninterested in girls. She was sporty and uninterested in boys. People noticed and talked. Some of the things they said were harder to forget than others.

“So, Cassie and I pretended to like each other and then we pretended to date and we just never stopped. We held hands, we flirted, we kissed, and people left us alone. We took trips sometimes to Leeds or Glasgow for festivals and concerts. I got to kiss a lot of boys. She kissed a lot of girls.” Harry shrugs. “It worked so well for us we started to prefer it that way.”

“As opposed to being out?” Louis asks. He seems to realise what he’s asked in retrospect. His gaze falls to his teacup.

Harry answers before Louis can think to apologise or retract his question. “We decided that we’d come out when we started uni,” he says. “And then of course, I got her pregnant.”

Louis covers his mouth with his pointer finger, but it doesn’t help. The breath of laughter comes from his nose. Harry laughs too.

“I know,” Harry says. “Two plus two equals…”

“A hundred?” Louis finishes for him. They laugh again. “Seriously, what happened?”

Harry takes a big, heavy breath. “So, we went to this party. We got really, _really_ pissed. I think we took ecstasy. When I tell you, I thought I was going to die, I mean— I rang my mum and said goodbye to her while I’m chucking up in the loo. It was pure madness. All to celebrate the end of our GSCEs.”

“Holy fuck,” Louis mumbles.

“I _know_ ,” Harry says. “But before all that— After the ecstasy and before I thought I was going to die, in the middle of that, we had a threesome with this girl. And I can’t tell you how it happened but it happened. Unless my daughter is the second coming of Christ, I’m the only man Cassie could have ever slept with.”

“You never got a DNA test done?”

Harry looks at him. “Have you seen my daughter?”

“Good point.”

“We _did_  have a test done, though, for medical reasons,” Harry adds. “But most people think Andy and I are twins these days. It still freaks me out sometimes how much she looks like me. With the dimples and the hair.”

“And the eyes," Louis says.

Harry glances at him. “Yes.”

“You’re both musically inclined too, I’ve heard,” Louis says. “Andy says you play the guitar.”

“Not like her.”

Louis starts shaking his head. “No, she says you’re a _beast_ on the guitar,” he says. “Don’t be modest.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “She exaggerates.”

“Did you ever consider getting into music yourself?”

Harry shrugs. “When I was younger, I was in this band with Cassie. We called ourselves White Eskimo,” he says laughing. “It was fun for a while, but it didn’t turn out to be my game. Not as a dad. Whatever ambitions I had prior to that— Once you have a child, your whole world realigns with them at the centre.”

When Louis is quiet, Harry’s gaze which had drifted out the window returns to him. “But I don’t resent that,” Harry says quickly. “At first, yes, but for different reasons.”

Louis lifts his brows, as if to ask, _like what?_

“Like,” Harry begins. “Having to raise her without a mum?”

Louis hesitates. Harry knows the question before it comes.

_What happened to her?_

He considers those words to be his arch nemesis. They demand an answer that he believes is always a disservice to the truth. He never wants to say ‘she was killed’ because that doesn’t quite sum it up. She was taken from him. Her loss left a hole in his heart the size of Andromeda, the galaxy, not their daughter. The truth is that Cassie has been gone for fifteen years and some days he still wakes up thinking he forgot to ring her. Some days the grief begins anew.

“Turned out alright though, yeah?” Louis says. “Andy, I mean. Even if it was hard at first.”

Harry blinks, thrown entirely.

“She’s talked a little bit about her mum, actually,” Louis says. “She said she wanted her to be the next Jimi Hendrix, that you kept your promise to her by teaching Andy guitar when she was five. That’s incredible. She says you couldn’t afford private lessons or recitals so you taught her everything she knows.”

Harry shakes his head, cheeks warming. “She picked up a lot on her own…”

“And a hell of a lot from you,” Louis says. “Seriously, it’s incredible, and I know you’re proud of her, and you’ve got every right to be.”

Just like that, Harry is pulled completely from the abyss of his own head. Thoughts of Cassie for now are quelled. Louis smiles at him with something faintly resembling wonder in his eyes and Harry has to look away, down at his tea, anywhere but there. If you stare too long into a glittering stream, you’re in danger of falling in.

“Thank you,” he says to his mug. He glances upwards, smiling. “I appreciate that. She _is_ incredible. And I _am_ tremendously proud. And thank you, of course, for giving her the opportunity.”

“She worked hard for it,” Louis says. He reaches into his back pocket suddenly and withdraws his phone, looks at the screen and shakes his head. “I swear if I looked away from this thing for a whole hour, I’d summon the apocalypse.”

“Just too busy of a man.”

“Much too busy,” Louis replies. He slides his mobile into his pocket again. “I’ve got to go. But thank you for the tea and the chat.”

“Of course. I’ll show you to the front door,” Harry says, standing. He leads him down the hallway and gets the door for him. “Thank you for stopping by. We should do this again.”

Louis looks at him, his brows furrowed.

“Like, for Andy’s sake,” Harry clarifies. “I think having a good relationship between producer and parent is important, yeah?”

Louis nods. “I agree,” he says. “I’ll be back for those biscuits.”

Harry laughs. “Good.”

“See you, Harry.”

“Bye, Louis,” Harry says, with a small wave, and shuts the door behind him.

†

Cassiopeia Noonan was every bit the constellation she was named for. With bright orange hair that would grace the strands on their daughter’s head years later and an unfailing love for Jimi Hendrix, she came rocketing blindingly into Harry’s eight-year-old world with little regard for the state in which she found it.

They met in Sunday school and she complained for a full month that Harry smelled like toothpaste. It was true. He liked peppermints. He stole handfuls from the little baskets at church. The pockets of his trousers were always filled to the brim with them.

He couldn’t pronounce her name at first, which further solidified her distaste for him. In his defence, no one could. Her mum called her Cass and her stepdad called her Pea. Harry began to call her Cassie and simply never stopped.

They didn’t become best friends on purpose. It was more the product of proximity. Cassie was the only kid his age on the lonely stretch of homes in their rural neighbourhood. The older kids teased Harry often. He was chubby with unruly curly hair and two feet that didn’t understand the concept of left and right. Gemma had her own friends and while she tried to include Harry often, he knew it was a pain for her. As much as he and Cassie differed, he took to her easily. They took to each other.

Years spilt over into years. They outgrew their bikes and received new ones. Puberty changed Cassie’s body in ways she didn’t like, and they frequented secondhand shops for baggy hoodies and jeans. “It’s not that I hate them,” she said to Harry one summer afternoon, speaking of her breasts. Harry focused adamantly on his watermelon ice lolly. “It’s just that _boys_ like them and I don’t like boys.”

Harry looked at her. “You don’t like boys?” he asked. He’d suspected as much. He just hadn’t expected her to ever say so.

“I like boys about as much as you like girls.”

They looked at each other, understanding settling on them like the cool breeze and the trickle of water from the creek behind Harry’s home. He started on his lolly again without another word. No further words were necessary.

She was sporting a bruise beneath her eye a week later. The boys at school had always known she didn’t like them but that only made them want her more. They teased her and whistled at her and Cassie was never one to back down from a fight. She went after her enemies and Harry’s enemies too. She fought anytime, anywhere, wearing baggy jeans or skirts, a football kit or her best Sunday dress. She fought and in most cases, she won. That afternoon, the bruise said otherwise.

They sat in Harry’s living room, curled up in front of the telly. The bluish light caught on a tear that had slipped her notice and ventured down her cheek. She swiped at it quickly but Harry still saw. He reached for her hand and held it in his own.

“I hate boys,” she mumbled after several minutes of the footie match on screen and Harry stroking his thumb across her palm.

“I’m not a huge fan of girls.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. “I like you, though. You’re the exception.”

He smiled. The ‘same’ went without saying.

“We should go on a date,” Cassie said.

Harry froze.

She sat upright, dragging the end of her sleeve beneath her eyes. “Seriously, I’ve been thinking. If we went on a date, people would leave us alone. If we held hands in public…”

“We’ve done that before.”

“Yeah, but not seriously. If we were always holding hands...and flirting—”

Harry laughed, except it sounded more like his dad’s old lorry refusing to start.

“We could fool everyone into thinking we’re a couple, the boys who tease me and the ones who tease you too,” Cassie finished.

“Not necessarily,” Harry said. They’d released each other’s hands now. Harry loved Cassie, he did. But he meant when he said that he wasn’t a fan of girls. Not in the warm fuzzy feeling kind of way. When he thought about holding hands or going on dates, he thought of Noah Whitaker and Mark Stanton and essentially every boy on their school’s football team. He didn’t even know if he could pretend otherwise.

“It’s worth a try though, isn’t it?” Cassie said. The TV’s light shone on the moisture building in the corners of her eyes. “H, I’m sick of going to school. I’m tired of fighting all the time. Aren’t you?”

Harry swallowed, the saliva in his mouth feeling thick like molasses. He was teased often but not like Cassie and when he was, he had her or Gemma to fight his battles for him. He never asked them to. He preferred not to see anyone fight at all. But the point was that he never had to do it himself.

Cassie, on the other hand— She had to keep fighting. It would pain her more to give up than to throw a punch. Cassie had to keep putting on a brave face, even when she felt far from brave.

She was the brightest star in his galaxy and she would likely be the first to burn out. But only if he let her.

“Okay.”

Cassie stared at him, eyes widening so much the tears fell free. “Really?”

“Yeah, why not?” Harry said. He hesitated, worrying he would regret the words when they were out. He didn’t. “For you, yeah. I’ll be your gay boyfriend.”

Cassie laughed tearfully. “And I, your lesbian lover.”

They giggled on their way into the kitchen to steal a bottle of his dad’s Budweiser to share. They were rebel adolescents and rebel they did, sitting cross-legged in the dark of Harry’s living room and whispering plans for their great conspiracy.

†

The Wonderlands release the first of ten videos on Youtube featuring a cover of a song requested on Twitter. The whole process seems elaborate to Harry when Andy explains it on the phone, but using social media to interact with fans is apparently the #1 key to success.

It’s not that he doesn’t get it. He’s just never had a personal need to reach a large number of people and the concept is daunting. Growing up in a small town, people talked about him enough and it was never really a good thing.

Again, he hates to seem like a socially inept parent, especially with a rockstar for a daughter.  He wants to be engaged in every step of her career, not to cling, but to see that she makes it to the top safely. He still worries without ceasing, even though the first few months have gone well. He worries that the minute he lets her slip completely from his sight will be the same minute she fails.

So, he signs up for all these social media accounts that he would never have thought to before. Andy tried to convince him years ago to start a Twitter for the flower shop but he hadn’t been interested. What does a flower shop need Twitter for? What kind of social recognition could his little haunt possibly require? He still hasn’t found answers for those questions but he signs up for Twitter now anyway. He names his account ‘floralharrystyles’ and uses the same for Instagram too. Then he follows The Wonderlands on both.

He clicks through some of the photos they’ve already uploaded here and there, reading glasses perched atop his nose. They have two from their first gig and a few of them at their flat making smoothies or rehearsing.

On Twitter, he finds the first video linked and smiles when he realises it’s a cover of Paint It Black by the Rolling Stones. They sound amazing, which comes as no surprise. He reads the comments, increasingly chuffed with each kind word he finds, and then he sees the name Louis Tomlinson with one of those blue checks beside it. ‘Sounds sick, girls! Good work!’ he writes with an odd string of emojis.

Harry finds himself browsing Louis’ personal Twitter minutes later. He doesn’t think long before he decides to follow him. For Andy’s sake, obviously. For the sake of building a relationship between producer and parent.

After a shower and a start on dinner, he ends up on his mobile again to tweet a response of his own. ‘Really proud,’ he writes with two x’s and a smiley face.

Balancing dinner and Twitter isn’t easy but he manages, stirring with one hand, following suggested accounts with the other. He navigates to Instagram and takes a picture of his pasta primavera and sends that to Twitter too.

“Think that’s enough,” he decides, leaving his phone on the coffee table.

He grabs two beers, his dinner and settles down in front of the television. Time trickles on like it tends to these days. The house is too quiet. Sam, the bearded dragon, is gone now. Andy could only survive so long without him. Harry pictures her strumming her guitar by the window and eventually coercing Harry into grabbing his own.

_She says you’re a beast on the guitar._

Harry smiles, thinking of his entire exchange with Louis a day ago and thinking about Andy. He misses her. He misses her enough to go grab his guitar and send her a quick message.

**Busy?**

She replies quickly. **_Surprisingly no._**

**Buzz buzz? :)**

**_Haha I’ll FaceTime you! One sec_ **

Harry waits, drumming his hands on the hollow body of his guitar. He answers when the phone rings and Andy’s face appears on the screen. He smiles. “Hey, babe.”

“Hi, Dad,” Andy says. She gives him a sympathetic look. “You miss me terribly.”

“Shut up,” Harry replies. He can’t deny it. “Are we playing or not?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Andy says, lifting her guitar into the frame. She sets it comfortably on her lap. “My cheque finally came in and I bought a new MacBook.”

“Nice. What else?”

Andy shrugs. “I sent a cheque in the post to you, and Nan and Grandpa too.”

Harry recoils. “Why would you do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Andy fires back. “Nan paid for me to go to public school and for my braces. You bought my guitar and drove me back and forth to London for auditions. I owe you.”

“That’s not how it works.” Harry massages his forehead. “I’m sending the cheque back when it comes. Nan is going to do the same.”

“I’m buying you a car,” Andy replies.

Harry’s eyes widen. “ _What?_ ”

“Not anytime soon,” she says. “But eventually, I’m going to buy you a car and a massive house and a trip to Bora Bora.”

“Why Bora Bora?”

“Everyone likes Bora Bora.”

Harry breathes a soft laugh. “Andy—”

“Are we playing or not?” Andy mimics him, positioning her fingers on the fret. She doesn’t look at him as she speaks, “One day, I’m going to be filthy rich and if you think you’re not going to be rolling around in money with me, you’re joking.”

Harry doesn’t respond.

“Now, let me show you this new song I’m working on,” Andy says. And after a glance, she begins to play. Harry watches and listens, his eyes stinging for reasons he doesn’t understand.

“I like it,” he says when she’s finished.

“Any suggestions?”

Harry repositions his own guitar. “On the hook, yeah. Might sound better like this…” He starts strumming. “You’re playing it sharp but I think it’d work better flat.”

She starts to play with him. “Like this?”

“Like that,” Harry says. “Where’s your capo?”

“Fourth fret,” Andy says.

“Try the third.”

She removes her capo and clamps it down on the fourth fret and starts strumming again. “Oh,” she says, nodding. “Yeah…”

“That’s nice,” Harry says. “Sing that last verse again.”

Immediately, she starts to sing, while Harry taps his hand against his guitar to the beat. They look at each other and smile.

“Sounds great.”

“Really great, yeah,” Andy agrees. “I’ll have to show this to Louis.”

Hearing his name catches Harry by surprise. “Does he have you working on your own stuff for the band?”

“No, but I sent him a tape and he liked it,” Andy says. She shrugs. “Maybe I’ll be able to get some stuff on the album.”

“I’d imagine you would,” Harry says. “I watched the YouTube video, by the way. I loved it.”

“I saw your tweet. Congratulations on joining the rest of the world on Twitter.”

Harry gives her an unimpressed look. “There’s a large portion of the population not on Twitter.”

“I followed you back,” she says, ignoring him. “You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t even realise.”

“Check your notifications,” Andy says. “The rest of the world is probably reaching out to you already.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’ll be sure to check my notifications,” he says. “Want to show me one more before bed?”

“Yeah,” Andy says and again, she begins to play.

They end up working through two songs, not one. They draft up some new lyrics and change chords around. Andy’s voice is much higher than Harry’s but she’s still an alto with a natural rasp that he’s always adored. They sing together and play until it’s midnight and his eyelids are heavy.

“You’re doing well,” Harry says. “I’m proud of you, you know?”

“I know,” Andy says, smiling. She sets her guitar aside and looks down at her hands. “I miss you, Dad.”

Harry hasn’t wanted to say so himself. He knows she worries about him being lonely and he does what he can to avoid her thinking he is. But he can’t help it now. “I miss you too,” he says. “Very, very much.”

“See you on Halloween?” Andy asks.

“Definitely.”

Andy points at him. “Check your notifications!”

“I will,” Harry says. “Bye. Go sleep. I love you.”

“Love you too.” Andy waves. “Goodnight!”

“Night,” Harry replies and then she’s gone.

He puts his guitar aside and rests his head against the back of the couch for a moment. He’s more than ready for bed by now. He tidies up quickly and shuffles into his room to crawl beneath his covers. He checks his Twitter notifications as his eyelashes begin to sink toward his cheeks.

Several friends and family members have followed him back, including Andy, of course. But perhaps most notably of all is a follow from Louis Tomlinson.

†

28 Productions’ studio is located just minutes from Sony’s headquarters. It’s not as elaborately crafted but it’s homely once you step inside and somehow achieves that happy medium between modern and classic in its interior design.

Harry hasn’t been here since the last rehearsal he and the other parents were allowed to spectate, meaning he’s here now with a new perspective and devoid of the same nerves he had then. While he waits for Andy to finish up with rehearsal, he peruses the framed portraits and awards lining the wall, all in some way featuring Louis.

Every bit of success Louis’ achieved, he worked hard for. Harry knows that without really knowing him. Like most of the UK, he knows the stories of Louis’ X-Factor days and his One Direction days. He knows about the eventual disbandment when Louis was twenty-five and years later, Louis signing his first artist, followed by another, and another, all of whom achieved success in the UK and abroad.

Harry knows the basics, at least. But staring at these pictures, he finds himself curious about the backstory.

“Harry?”

He turns quickly at the sound of that voice.

Louis approaches when he’s sure it’s him. He comes immaculately suited. His jacket and trousers are a dark navy this time with a crisp white shirt and a red patterned tie. Harry releases a small breath at the sight of him. There’s no getting used to this man. Each time he appears it’s another blow to Harry’s resistance. He’s clean shaven and shiny and as he draws closer, the smell of some finely-crafted cologne fills the air.

“Hi,” Harry says, perhaps too cheerfully. “Nice to see you again.”

“Twice in a matter of days,” Louis says, smiling.

“I’d say you were following me but I’m in _your_ building,” Harry says. His brain comes to a two-second halt. He thinks if he surveyed a hundred people, at least ten of them would say that constituted as flirting.

Louis simply smiles on. He’s got a lovely smile. Harry doesn’t know why he ever pictured him with horns. It’s clear they wouldn’t suit him.

“Are you here for Andy?” Louis asks.

“Yup. We’re headed to my parents for Halloween. They have a little party every year.” More information than was asked for, but Louis never misses a word or seems to mind.

“Sounds like fun.”

“It should be,” Harry says. “It’s also just nice to see her in person. Haven’t since the weekend.”

Louis smiles. “It’s nice how close you two are. I don’t think the other girls are having quite as hard of a time being away from home.”

Harry frowns. “I didn’t know she was having a hard time.”

“No, she’s fine, but she talks about you a lot. She’s said she finds it hard being away. That’s all,” Louis assures him.

“It’s funny,” Harry begins. “Some children go abroad for months at a time and we’re whining about being weeks apart within an hour’s drive of each other.”

“It’s nice, though, really,” Louis says. “I was never very close to my father. I understand how that changes a person.”

Harry knew that about him from reading some article. But it still counts as the first piece of personal information Louis has offered about himself.

“I’ll have to just take your word for it,” Harry says. A cluster of individuals drifts down the hallway, mumbling “Good evening, sir” to Louis as they pass by. Harry waits until they’re gone to say, “Any Halloween plans for you?”

“Horror film marathon with mates probably,” Louis says with a laugh.

Harry narrows his eyes. “Like the gory kind?”

“Probably,” Louis says, chuckling.

Harry shakes his head. “I hate that shit. Andy’s all about it, though. At most, she can get me to watch the Walking Dead.”

Louis groans. “Love the Walking Dead.”

“Figures,” Harry says, laughing. Their eyes linger on each other for a moment. Harry points toward the picture frame on the wall. “I was checking out some of these photos before you came.” The one they're poised in front of features Louis when he must have been eighteen, wearing bright red trousers and braces. Harry pulls on the imaginary straps of a pair of braces. “I’m loving these.”

Louis laughs, dragging a hand over his mouth. “Honestly, the braces weren’t the worst. Very cheeky. I actually enjoyed them.”

“ _I’m_ enjoying them,” Harry says. “It’s time to bring them out of hiding.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Louis says, grinning.

Harry starts to say something else. Later, he’ll wonder how he hasn’t run out of topics. He’ll wonder if he could have spoken to Louis for hours. But Andy is heading down the hall now with the other girls, laughing about a lingering joke. She sees Harry and her eyes widen excitedly.

Louis steps back to allow them room to hug. She throws herself into Harry's arms.

“It’s only been a week,” she mumbles, her face smushed against Harry’s chest.

Harry smiles, squeezing her tightly. “A very long week.”

He wraps one arm around her shoulders and she throws her arm around his waist, the other holding her guitar case at her side.

“Have a Happy Halloween,” Harry says to Louis.

Louis smiles at them both. “Same to you.”

“Bye, Louis,” Andy says as they turn and start toward the lifts. She begins telling him about her rehearsal and he listens with only half of his mind. The other half is on the man behind him. He chances a glance just before they round the corner. Louis is speaking with Mercy now but he happens to meet Harry’s gaze in the final second before they’re gone from each other’s sight.

†

Alfie pops out from under the bed the second the door creaks open, tiny fingers curled like claws. “Rawr,” he sounds, though it comes out breathless and not intimidating at all.

Harry slaps a hand to his chest anyhow and gasps.

“Found him,” he calls down the hallway. He approaches the bed and scoops Alfie into his arms. “Found you, little lion.”

Alfie growls again in reply. Harry laughs, carting him out of his parents’ bedroom and down the steps, where Gemma stands, hands on her hips. She pushes the stained veil of her corpse bride costume away from her face.

“I got him,” Harry says. “You finish with the cake. Won’t let him out of my sight, I promise.”

“I need you to _help_ me with the cake, H,” Gemma says. “Where’s Andy?”

“Here,” Andy says, stepping out from the bathroom near the front door. She holds her hands out to the side, wiggling her fingers. “How do I look?”

“Like you looked last year,” Harry says. “I thought you were done with Thriller Michael.”

“I thought you were done with being a space cowboy and yet—”

Harry sticks his tongue out at her. “Take Alfie while I save Gemma’s cake.”

Andy accepts the toddler into her arms and receives a growl from him. “Ferocious,” she comments, starting off towards the living room. “Which zoo did we snatch you from?”

Gemma pulls Harry into the kitchen. “I used fondant like you suggested and it came out terribly.”

Harry looks at the mess of ingredients on the worktop. “Did you chill the fondant?”

“No?”

Harry looks at her. “Gem,” he says pouting. He pushes the sleeves of his chequered shirt up to his elbow and sets his cowboy hat aside. “Alright. We’re going to have to scratch the fondant.”

“But I need it to look like a pumpkin,” Gemma reminds him.

“I can do that,” Harry says. He starts peeling off the sticky pieces of fondant. “You didn't ice the cake before applying the fondant?”

“Harry, I literally have no idea what I'm doing.”

Harry smiles. “Alright. This actually works in our favour. I need three eggs, butter and sugar.”

She fetches the ingredients for him. “Thank you for doing this.”

“Of course,” Harry says, dumping the fondant in the rubbish. “I know your coworkers are coming tonight. Trying to impress them, yeah?”

Gemma’s shoulders sink when she sighs. “I never thought I’d be this person. I never wanted to be, at least. The mum with the day job, trying to make her coworkers like her.”

“Do they not already adore you?” Harry asks, setting the heavy stand mixer on the marble top.

“Who knows?” she mumbles.

Harry starts on a simple frosting. “Food colouring?”

Gemma points to the cupboard above the microwave.

“You don’t have to impress them, you know? I know that’s probably not helpful to say. But you don’t,” Harry says. “People like you just as you are.”

Gemma is quiet for a long time, watching him work.

“I don’t want to be a teacher.”

They look at each other. Harry rests his elbows on the worktop. “Since when?”

“Since having my own child? Since feeling like I’m competing with my coworkers?” Gemma guesses. “I haven’t got a clue. I just know… I love to teach… but not like this.”

Harry pops the steel bowl out from the mixer. He adds red and yellow food colouring and folds it all together. He repeats until he’s got a nice pumpkin orange. “Why not take some time off?”

“I might after this year.”

“Good. I think it’ll help,” Harry says. He reaches out and squeezes her forearm. “Want to help me with this?”

Gemma stands. “Please, yes. I feel useless sat here.”

“Welcome to the club. All I feel lately is useless,” Harry says.

Gemma frowns. “Because of Andy?”

Harry glances towards the hallway and then at Gemma, with a look that answers the question for him. He says quietly, “I don’t know how I can be useful at this point. I’ve turned into a social media parent, liking tweets and adding a little smiley face here and there. It’s kind of ridiculous.”

“Poor you,” Gemma says with a laugh. “Is Twitter not being kind to you?”

“No, that’s what’s ridiculous. I like it. I’m always on there now,” Harry says. “And I follow Louis Tomlinson too.”

Gemma stares at him. “Interesting. You like him now?”

“Not like that,” Harry dismisses.

“I _mean_ , you think he’s a decent human being now?”

Harry licks icing from his thumb and glances at her. “I just think I misjudged him. That’s all,” he says quietly, eyes on the cake. “He’s not so bad.”

Gemma laughs. “Don’t do it, Harry.”

“Do what?” he asks. He doesn’t give her a chance to answer. He steps back to peruse the cake. “Sort of looks like a pumpkin already, yeah?”

“I suppose,” Gemma says. The doorbell rings. “Should be mum and dad. Have you got this?”

“I’ve got it,” Harry says. He finds a piping bag in one of the drawers while Gemma leaves to help their parents with the food and drinks from the car. The cake still needs leaves and vines, which he achieves with some green icing and a careful hand.

He finishes right at six. Their guests begin to arrive around seven. An array of neighbourhood folk, coworkers, family, and longtime friends filter through the door. Liam and Niall show up too, mostly to coerce Harry into pub-crawling later on. Andy’s oldest friend Luce arrives to keep her company.

Harry ends up in the back garden with Boyd, Gemma’s coworker, and a collection of other guests.

“Still on for this weekend?” Harry asks him.

Boyd smiles, swirling beer around his plastic cup. “Of course. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Me too,” Harry says, glancing out at the lawn. Again, his hands itch for a cigarette. Awkwardness does that to him. “I like your costume. I haven’t seen Luke Skywalker done so well.”

“You think so?” Boyd says, looking down at himself. “You know, I actually borrowed this from another coworker. I was thinking of coming as a copper.”

“Either would suit you,” Harry says.

Niall and Liam come in search of him then. The conversation flows a bit better when it’s the four of them, although Boyd alternates between staring at Harry and staring at his beer. He isn’t the marrying type. Harry knows that already. But he’s well fit and looks at Harry like he’s fresh out of university, not approaching 35 (which is halfway to 40).

The holiday flies by. They take the five children in attendance trick-or-treating. Andy tags along but only ‘as a chaperone,’ she says. Her bag full of sweets when they return says otherwise.

She and Harry sing several rounds of karaoke, Halloween edition. They show off a little bit, but no one is surprised. They play Charades and board games. They tire themselves out.

Still, later that night, after Andy, Alfie, and his parents are in bed, Harry leaves with Gemma, Ralph, Niall, and Liam for a few pints at the pubs in town. They go still dressed in costume and drink until their stomachs are full.

After a very lonely week, it’s all more than welcome.

†

**NOVEMBER 2016**

Fashionably late applies to more than just parties. Apparently, it works for dates too. Harry should have taken that into account before he left his flat a whole half-hour earlier than eight o’clock. He hates to arrive anywhere first, but dates are the worst of them. He’s all done up to sit by himself. He’s forced to sip his sangria slowly because he doesn’t want to finish it before his date arrives. He can’t order food because he doesn’t want to seem like a glutton. If he gets full before things even start, that would be a bit rude, wouldn’t it?

He straightens his back when he realises he’s been slumping and glances towards the door of the pub for the tenth time. He hisses a sharp ‘fuck’ into his drink when he meets eyes with the person standing there. Impossible. The one time he ventures into the city, how is it possible he’d run into Louis?

Louis removes his coat at the door and says something to one of the people with him, the same man Harry saw at G-A-Y. His friend walks off with the rest of their party and Louis makes his way towards Harry.

“Hi, again,” he says.

“Hello,” Harry replies, and adds, “Again.”

“Are you here alone?” Louis asks.

“No, I’m waiting for someone.”

“A date?”

“Yes,” Harry says with a smile.

Louis nods, eyes drifting over his face. “Well, it’s good to see you.”

“Same to you,” Harry says.

“You look lovely.”

Harry worked especially hard to hear that coming from Boyd. He spent extra time on his hair. He shaved. He switched out his T-shirt for a patterned blouse and his ripped jeans for a neat, all-black pair. He expected the compliment from Boyd but hearing it from Louis has the same impact, if not greater.

Definitely greater.

 _Lovely._ When was the last time someone called him lovely?

“Thank you,” Harry says, nibbling his top lip. “You look great too.”

As usual.

“Thanks,” Louis says, smiling. His eyes pass over Harry again, reading him openly. It’s especially frustrating when he can’t be read himself. “See you.”

Harry waves and Louis leaves to join his friends at a booth somewhere behind him.

The message comes through within minutes of their exchange. Boyd’s number, which Harry hasn’t even saved to his phone, pops up on the screen, and beneath it:

**_Can’t make it. I’m so sorry! My uncle just passed._ **

Harry’s straw slides from his mouth. “ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses again.

This is the part where he gets up and leaves with his dignity only partially intact. But he’s got company now. He feels his gaze on him, even if Louis probably isn’t paying him any mind at all. The minute Harry stands, Louis will know, and then Harry will forever be known as the man who got stood up. Never mind that it isn’t true. Perception is reality.

Harry could slip into the loo. He could find a back door. It sounds dramatic but he’s never pretended to be anything else.

He turns his head slightly to the left. Slowly, he angles his body and glances over his shoulder. He makes eye contact with Louis and nearly dies.

This is the culmination of every teenager’s worst nightmare: being exposed to the derision of someone they admire. Because yes, Harry admires Louis. He likes him as a person. Ask him when that came to be and he couldn’t tell you. But it’s true. He got Louis all wrong. He’s starting to think of them as friends now or something close. The last thing he needs is to look like a fool in front of him.

He orders another drink after downing the first. This time, it’s straight vodka on the rocks.

Minutes pass. He keeps thinking the voices of Louis’ friends have come to a stop and that they’ve left the pub miraculously early, only for their laughter to explode behind him again. He considers texting Troye, who attends university not far from here, to come save him. Louis might even be impressed that Harry scored himself such a young lad.

He feels ridiculous. When he’s home and nestled in his bed, he’ll laugh at himself.

He happens another glance at the booth behind him and _again_ , their eyes meet. Harry sighs and orders another drink, resting his chin in his palm. After this one, he’ll leave and then, he supposes, he’ll never speak to Louis Tomlinson again.

Then Louis slides onto the barstool beside him.

He lifts his hand to signal to the barman. “Jack and Coke,” he tells him. “Thanks.”

Harry watches the barman leave.

“Did he stand you up?”

Harry looks at Louis. “No.”

“No?”

Finally, Harry laughs at himself and exhales a big breath that ruffles the ends of his hair. “He cancelled,” he says. “He texted me like thirty minutes ago but I was too embarrassed to get up.”

Louis licks his lips. Everything about his expression says he wants to laugh. “Because of me?” he questions, brows shooting upwards.

“Yes? I knew what you’d think,” Harry grumbles. “I was hoping you and your friends would leave first.”

Louis covers his mouth with his hand and sputters. His eyes crinkle with mirth. He lowers his forehead to the bar and laughs and laughs.

Harry chuckles into his glass. “Stop laughing at me.”

“I’m trying. You’re _insane_ ,” Louis says, looking at him. The corners of his eyes are damp. “Who gives a fuck what I think?”

“Obviously me,” Harry mumbles. He’s too tipsy to have any shame.

“What’s this lad’s reason for cancelling?”

Under normal circumstances, it might be an invasive question, but they’re _both_ tipsy. Harry can tell now from the loose way Louis leans into the bar.

“Death in the family,” Harry says.

“Alright then,” Louis says, wincing. “Not the shit excuse I was expecting.”

“Honestly,” Harry says. “I think he’s lying. He works with my sister, which is how we met. I’ve been texting her and she says he had a death in the family last week when he missed a staff meeting, and last month too. So, either he’s just a really unlucky bastard—”

They start laughing again. Harry takes a big sip of his beer.

“ _Or_ ,” he says, slapping his glass down. “He just doesn’t want to date me.”

“He’d be a fool.”

“Most men are,” Harry agrees.

“Let me make it up to you. On behalf of all men,” Louis says. “How about a shot?”

Harry laughs, resting his chin in his palm. “I never turn down a shot.”

Louis grins, signalling for the barman again. He orders one shot of tequila each with limes and salt. They down them easily.

“All the men who have ever wronged me are now forgiven thanks to you.”

“How many men are we talking about?”

Harry’s nose wrinkles as he thinks. “Well, there’s James from uni. Michael from uni. Carl, also from uni. Keith. Peter. Lawrence. Ned.”

“Jesus,” Louis hisses. “Where do you find these blokes?”

“Same place everyone else finds their soulmates,” Harry mumbles. “Only difference is that I have a daughter.”

Louis doesn’t respond, and even though he’s drunk, Harry knows he’s just killed the mood. He lifts his drink and shrugs.

“I can’t see why that’d be a turn-off,” Louis says. “Andy’s great. You both are.”

Harry smiles. “It beats me. My sister says there’s something attractive about a single father to most women. It means he’s responsible and loving.” He rolls his eyes. “I don’t know how that translates for gay men. I don’t know what most gay men think of when they see a single father. Especially one with a biological daughter. Maybe they think I’m bisexual and for some reason, that’s a nightmare for them. God forbid sexual orientation should be anything other than gay or straight. They’re all idiots, as I said. And I’m tired of trying.”

He takes a big breath and looks to the barman. “And I need another shot.”

“How about two?” Louis suggests, and he lifts his hand.

They’re both sort of slumped against the edge of the bar after the next two, foreheads against their palms.

“I don’t resent Andy for any of this, you know? I’d rather have her than some man any day. She’s my best friend. She’s so much like her mum,” Harry mutters, sipping at his drink, a Tequila Sunrise now. “I don’t resent her. It’s not her fault. It’s just the way it is.”

Louis shakes his head. “Not the way it has to be.”

“You’re just an optimist.”

“Only as it pertains to other people,” Louis says, laughing. “My family tells me, with myself, I’m a bit of a pessimist. _Especially_ when it comes to love. I predict the worst and I’m usually right.”

Harry frowns. “Men are all such dickheads, aren’t they?”

“Not you, though. You seem like a good one," Louis says.

Harry looks at his mouth, not for the first time. The first two buttons of his shirt are undone, providing a glimpse of the tattoo across his chest. He’s rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. Harry appreciates him openly and it’s not that he isn’t aware he’s doing it. It’s that he just doesn’t care.

When he meets Louis’ eyes again, all that appreciation is mirrored back.

“You're not even single,” Harry decides. “You're lying to make me feel better.”

Louis’ brows wrinkle with confusion. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you _can't_ be single,” Harry says.

Louis huffs a laugh. “And why’s that?”

Harry exhales like an exhausted donkey. “You’re just looking for me to compliment you.”

“I _do_ like compliments,” Louis says. “Are you going to answer my question?”

Would this constitute as flirting? Harry thinks about it for a second and yet again, he doesn’t care.

“You’re all confident and kind of broody, always walking around like you hate the world a little bit, and the whole time, the world is just loving you,” Harry says, smiling. Louis’ lashes move lazily, sweeping down slowly, fluttering upward. Their knees brush. “You’re rich, which doesn’t matter to me, but I’m sure it does to other men. You’ve got an amazing voice, a nice laugh, a good heart…”

Louis’ eyes never leave him. Harry’s skin burns beneath their touch.

“You’re sexy,” he says.

Louis laughs abruptly. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely,” Harry says. “You’re ridiculous. You shouldn’t even be real.”

Louis rubs his scruffy chin, lips pulling back in a grin.

“That right there, what you’re doing?” Harry says. “Sexy.”

They laugh.

“Stop it,” Louis says.

“Do you snore?” Harry asks.

“No?” Louis looks partly amused, mostly confused.

“I was gonna say,” Harry begins, giggling. “If you did, it’d probably be the sexiest snoring ever.”

“Shut up,” Louis says, covering his face with his hand.

Harry touches his forearm. He doesn’t even realise he’s doing it until he is.

“This bird,” Harry says. “Also, sexy.”

He feels Louis’ eyes on him while he runs his hand over his skin.

“All of them, really,” Harry says. He slides his hand to Louis’ bicep. “There’s a buck here, isn’t there? Saw a picture online. That one’s nice too.”

His gaze darts upward. There’s really no way to describe how Louis looks at him. His brows are furrowed. His pink lips are parted and yet he doesn’t seem to be drawing breath between them. He sits completely still, except for his eyes moving across Harry’s face, across his mouth.

Harry drops his hand. “There,” he says. “You’ve been sufficiently complimented.”

Louis looks away, lifting his glass. He exhales a slow breath before the rim meets his lips. “I should go,” he says when the glass is empty. “I actually have to stop by the office.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair and swallows around the weird lump in his throat. He’s sobering quickly, feeling like he should apologise for being forward, and losing time to do so as Louis stands and slides sixty pounds onto the bar.

Harry opens his mouth to speak.

“You underestimate yourself, you know?” Louis says to him. “I dunno if sexy quite sums it up or what. But you’re something.”

Now it’s Harry’s breath stuck in his lungs.

“Will you be alright getting home?” Louis asks.

Numbly, Harry nods. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

“Have a good night then, Harry.”

Harry doesn't reply. Louis passes by, leaving the sharp scent of his Tom Ford cologne drifting after him.


	3. Chapter 3

A roll of sushi slips and slides around Andy’s tray. She’s never been very good with chopsticks, one of those quirks about her Harry doesn’t understand. For a girl so dexterous on guitar, how odd that she would be stumped by two simple wooden pegs. It always takes her a minute or two to warm up to it and they’ve only just started their meal at Jo’s Sushi Palace.

She finally snags a tuna roll, smiles triumphantly, and lifts it to her mouth. Her eyes meet his. “What?”

Harry shakes his head. He picks a shrimp tempura roll for himself and speaks as he chews, “Nan finally got that new Christmas tree she’s been wanting. Just in time for the holiday.”

“The one with the lights that change colour?”

“That’s the one.” Harry takes a sip of his sake, a well-deserved authentic glass of rice wine.

He and Andy caught the tube to meet about halfway between London and Northampton, since the girls have voice lessons early in the morning and Andy needs to get back soon. It’s another Friday night now and a whole week since his failed-date-turned-surprising-encounter with Louis.

On that following Saturday, Andy had come back from staying the night with Gemma. They powered up Netflix and fell asleep on the couch with their long legs and knobby knees fighting for space, and the electric heater humming nearby.

Sunday night was a bit of the same. They concocted a large pot of butternut squash soup while a persistent rain fell beyond the window, then curled up on the couch with their guitars, fine-tuning more songs and chords. Until again, they fell asleep.

It never seems like much when Andy spends the night. They don’t go prancing around their small town or throwing parties in their tiny flat. Almost always, it’s a cup of tea, a song or three, and a film, and those nights turn out to be the greatest. That’s the thing about a best friend and, for Harry, a daughter. Even doing nothing with her constitutes as fun.

This weekend, by contrast, is unfolding much differently — an hour or two for sushi and then a goodbye. That’s all he gets. So, sake? Yes, he’ll have as many glasses as he pleases. He hasn’t got to drive, and a bitter drink is necessary sometimes for an equally bitter soul.

“Have you thought about what you’re getting her for Christmas?” Andy asks.

“I’m trying not to. The best way to go Christmas shopping is to wait until the very last minute. That way, you’ve got the pressure to force you into a decision.”

Andy looks at him, a roll of sushi frozen between her chopsticks. “I think you’ve never been more wrong about anything.”

“Well, you do your shopping ahead of time. I’ll do mine last minute and we’ll see who does better,” Harry says, smiling sweetly.

“I’ve already got my Christmas presents.”

He slaps his glass down. “You do not.”

“I do. For you, Nan, Grandpa, Aunt Gem, even for Ralph and Alfie too.” Andy smiles like a villain, two cheeks dimpling. She takes a long sip of her pineapple juice.

Harry leans back in his seat, folding his arms across his chest. “And what did you get me?” he asks, lifting a brow.

“How odd,” Andy murmurs. “For you to ask me that question as if I’d actually tell you.”

Sometimes she’s more of a wasp. He lets her win this one — obviously since he’s already lost. “I have one of your gifts too,” he says. “Just yours, though. Haven’t figured anyone else’s out yet.”

Andy’s mousy nose scrunches up. “Am I gonna cry when I get it?”

“Possibly,” Harry says, grinning.

She has another roll of sushi, cogs in her brain visibly turning. She doesn’t try to guess but shoots suspicious glances at him frequently.

They talk football afterwards, then about some new show Andy’s started watching, and then she places her chopsticks down, folds her hands together, and says, “So we start recording soon.”

“Really?” Harry’s eyes widen. “That’s so exciting.”

“Yeah,” Andy says, gaze on her pineapple juice. “It is. And we’re going to be travelling a lot come next year.”

Harry’s brows sink into a V. He waits for her to go on. She doesn’t.

“Travelling where? For how long?”

Andy shrugs. “Louis hasn’t given us much detail yet. He’s still working on finalising the itinerary. Then he’ll send it out and you’ve got things you’ll have to sign. But he did mention LA and Sweden.”

Harry tightens his arms over his chest. He feels a draft, either from the restaurant door, an overhead air vent, or the words LA and Sweden. They're leagues away, a greater distance than she’s ever been on her own. He drags his top teeth over his bottom lip.

Andy looks at him. “What?”

“For how long?” he asks again.

“Like days or weeks at a time. It’s going to be great,” she says before he can respond. “All the girls are excited and I mean, it’s my first time travelling so far on my own so I’m really excited too.”

Harry’s also meant to be excited. He knows and he’s trying but maybe not hard enough. Seconds pass while he stares at her. His tongue feels caught in a snare. He blinks and opens his mouth but nothing happens.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Harry finishes off his wine. It helps. “I’m just surprised,” he says. “It’s a lot to take in all at once.”

“But you knew this was coming.”

“Sure, but that doesn’t mean I’m entirely prepared for it,” Harry says. “But I’m happy that you are.”

“Of course I am,” Andy says as if her being away for weeks at a time is no big deal when he sees less and less of her already. Perhaps, for her, it isn’t.

Quickly, he remembers himself.

He never wants to be the one to hold her back or stifle her with his feelings. That’s why he lies and pretends. That’s what’s worked for him so far. He has to remember that now.

“I’m happy for you,” he reiterates, sitting forward. “Really, I am. Things are just moving so quickly for you and I’m old, remember? I move slowly.”

Andy’s lips twitch. “You’re not old.”

“I’m basically 40, which is practically 50, which might as well be 60.”

She laughs. “No, no, forget 60. 50 is halfway to 100.”

“Well, shit.” Harry giggles with her, happy enough for genuine laughter, despite the sadness settling in his stomach beside the sake.

“See you on Sunday, yeah?” she asks, hugging him afterwards. A few late-night commuters pass them by on the platform, heads down against the cold. “For the album release party?”

He rests his head atop hers. “I haven’t forgotten. I’ll be there. Be careful on the ride back. Don’t talk to strangers.”

She rolls her eyes, shoving her hands into her pockets. “But strangers are so much fun.”

Harry snorts, turning away. “Text me when you’re back safe.”

“Will do,” she says. “Bye.”

Her train pulls up to the platform and she boards. He watches her find a seat and pulls one hand from his coat pocket to wave. She waves back, then presses her nose to the glass and pulls a funny face. He scoffs and sends her one back. In the next moment, the train is gone, as is she.

†

“You’re not still looking in the mirror, are you?”

Harry casts a cursory glance at his phone resting beside the sink. Again he runs his hand through his hair. A sweep of his finger exposes the solitary silver strand at his temple. He adjusts his hair again to hide it.

“Harry.”

“One second,” Harry says, leaning close to his reflection. He presses his fingers to his forehead and attempts to massage the lines away. They’re faint but he sees each of them like little stories he doesn't want to tell.

“You probably look like you just stepped off a bloody runway.”

“Stop flirting with me,” Harry mumbles. He gives himself a smile and abandons the mirror for his keys on the coffee table.

Liam starts the engine as soon as he sees him step through the door. “About fucking time.”

Harry slides into the passenger seat, a set of sunglasses already donned to ward off Liam’s grumpiness.

“Right off a runway, as I said,” Liam says.

Harry reaches out and pats his forearm. “Same to you, old man.” A sound attacks him from the speakers, a combo of high-pitched auto-tune and electronic flatulence. “What are you _listening_ to?” he asks. He twists the radio dial before Liam can answer. He finds a station playing Pink Floyd’s ‘Money’ and stills, fingers switching intuitively into an air guitar.

They’re pulling onto the motorway when Liam asks, “What happened with your date last Friday?”

“His uncle died. Or so he says. _But_...guess who happened to show up and keep me company?”

“Louis Tomlinson.”

Harry closes his mouth mid-inhale, the words stolen.

“I got it right?” Liam glances between him and the back of the car ahead of them. His eyes widen. “Did I really?”

“Yes,” Harry says begrudgingly. “Anyway, in walks Louis Tomlinson to save the day. We had a few drinks. We talked—” Harry trails off, shifting his knee the way he had that night. He imagines the fabric of his jeans skirting the cotton of Louis’ trousers.

A snap of a finger.

Harry looks to his right.

Liam smiles. “And what else?”

Louis isn’t straight. That’s what else, but Harry doesn’t say so. Their discussion about men and disappointment was a confidential one. Shot after shot was a key passed down the length of the bar, another truth disclosed. Just between the two of them.

“And it was nice,” Harry says in conclusion. “He’s nice.”

Liam’s smile grows. “Not such a mystery now?”

“No, still a mystery. But in a good way.” Harry turns to Liam with a grin. “A wonderland kind of way.”

“Did you just make a reference to your own daughter’s band?” Liam asks.

“Not exactly,” Harry says. He pauses for the drum beat of Snowblind by Black Sabbath, fingers tapping cymbals made of air. “Andy named the band, you know? She took it from this quote by Jon Foreman, the lead singer of Switchfoot. He said, ‘Somewhere between chaos and control, these are the wonderlands.’ If you think about what it means, then, to be a wonderland… He fits. Louis, I mean. Something chaotic hidden beneath a lot of control.”

Liam nods like he’s impressed. “Don’t let Andy hear you writing love songs about him.”

“ _Love_ songs? Is it the 90s again?” Harry wonders. It would have to be. That was the bright, idealistic period of Harry's life, from the late 90s into the millennium. It's been over a decade since that he's penned any love song. He swore off them, stuffed all his journals into a box, and doesn’t intend to revisit them now.

It takes them another thirty minutes before they reach West St. They don’t pull up right to the front of the Ivy, as the area is blocked off by cars and paparazzi-packed vans. No one takes their picture when they approach the doors, though neither of them feel slighted. There are a handful of folks who can’t get in, barred off by a red velvet rope. The bouncer checks for ‘Harry Styles and guest’ and waves them through.

Harry adjusts his curls again once they’re inside. Liam slaps the back of his hand against his chest and nods towards the bar, and Harry, being of like-mind, follows him. They procure free whiskey sours and linger there, glancing to and fro. Andy’s nowhere to be seen and that being the case, everyone surrounding them is a stranger.

Except for Rachel. Harry sees her through a gap of attendees but she doesn’t see him. Best to keep it that way. He turns to face the bar and finds he’s wrong again. Another familiar face. This one far more welcome.

Someone else is making Louis laugh. Seeing the way his cheeks flush from afar isn’t much different from witnessing it up close when sat beside him. But the desire to be the one stirring that laughter comes stark and unannounced for Harry.

Louis’ presence compels him even from the distance that separates them. One hand is poised comfortably on his hip, the other curled around a glass of dark liquor. He laughs as the woman talking to him chatters on, gesturing with her hands. He lifts his drink to his mouth and happens to glance around. His gaze passes Harry once and doubles back, stops.

“Dad.”

Blinking like there’s glitter in his eyes, Harry turns. Andy throws herself against his chest, causing his drink to slosh more than it already is.

“Hi,” Harry says, smiling. When she steps back, he sweeps his gaze down to her boots. “Love the look.”

She takes the hem of her red dress and does a small curtsy. “Why, thank you. Same to you. Loving the pink. Or should I call it _salmon_?”

Harry looks down at his patterned top. “Definitely more of a salmon.”

Liam tugs Andy beneath his arm and into a headlock, dropping a kiss atop her head. Laughing, she pushes him off. “I’m at _work_ ,” she says. “I need to look professional.”

Harry and Liam exchange a look.

“Listen to _her_ ,” Harry says, lifting his brows.

“Got ourselves a big shot, do we?” Liam replies.

Andy takes a sip of her drink like the big shot she is. “I did convince the barman to serve me a Jack and Coke.”

“Nice work,” Harry says, bumping his fist to hers. “Where’re your bandmates?”

Andy gestures abstractly around the room. “Somewhere. Louis just introduced us all to Jade. We’re celebrating the release of her album, in case you forgot.” Harry didn’t. “Then he told us to mingle until it’s time to perform.”

Harry glances again across the bar. Someone has Louis in a hug, patting his back between his shoulder blades. The person then throws an arm around his shoulders and holds onto him, whispering a joke to him, making him laugh. Envy comes easily to Harry. It’s one of those things about himself that he doesn’t bother working on. He accepts it for what it is: human. He just doesn’t welcome it now. Not for Louis. Not for a man he’s just barely friends with.

“So, I’m going to go do some more of that,” Andy says. “You know, mingling.”

“Easy on the Jack, yeah?” Harry tells her. “Don’t want to be drunk at your first industry party.”

She raises her glass to him, which he’ll take as some thanks for his advice, and saunters off. He and Liam give each other another look, shaking their heads.

“Time’s too quick for us, H,” Liam says.

Harry lifts his glass to his mouth. “Or we’re just too slow.”

Again, he looks. He’s broken his three-second rule a million times already and so he allows himself to indulge. He looks and their eyes meet. Harry smiles. Louis lifts his hand and gives him a small wave. There. Harry knows now that they’re on good terms, though it comes as a surprise to him in this exact moment, that he ever worried they weren’t. He thinks of himself cupping Louis’ bicep and can’t imagine what would’ve ever convinced him that was okay. The embarrassment overwhelms him all over again and he looks away.

Which is when Rachel takes the opportunity to approach him. “Hello, Harry.”

“Hi,” he says, carefully.

“Good to see you again.”

Lies.

“Same to you.”

More lies.

Rachel extends a hand for Liam to shake and they make quick introductions. She doesn’t spare a second glance for him. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says to Harry. “I’ve been trying to find an opportunity for us to talk.”

Harry nods, licking his lips. “Guess this is it then.”

Liam motions to the other side of the room as if he knows anyone over there and departs. Harry loses him in the crowd once Rachel starts talking, her arms crossing her chest tightly like a shield.

“I’m sorry about the way things turned out after that first rehearsal,” she says. “It wasn’t right for us to make you our enemy. Especially knowing now who the real enemy is.”

Harry waits for her to go on and she doesn’t. “Who would that be?”

Rachel narrows her eyes. “You know about LA and Sweden, don’t you? All these big cities Louis’ sending the girls to?”

“Yes?” Harry says slowly. He fears he must sound daft, but thus is the product of his confusion. “Does that make him the enemy?”

Rachel huffs a laugh. “Of course. All record producers are. He’s no different. He’s going with them, you know? At least a few of those times. Of course he is. The girls are young, impressionable. What do you think happens when you take them from their homes and put them in a big new world? Who do you expect them to depend on? Confide in?”

She takes a sip of her martini. “That’s how it always works. His producer did the same when he was young. Signed him and his band when they were gullible and desperate for fame, and made slaves of them.”

Harry clenches his jaw, glancing across the bar again. He doesn’t see him this time.

“If you think he’s so transparent,” he says to Rachel. “Why would you allow your sister to sign with him?”

“Because she doesn’t have much choice. Just like your daughter. They want to be stars and this is the way they do it,” Rachel says with a shrug. “What _we_ have to do as their guardians is protect them and guide them and keep our eyes on people like Mr Tomlinson.”

It’s too fanatical for him, the whole evil producer spiel. Too much like a bad film synopsis. He doesn’t believe it and he doesn’t want to. “Well, thank you for the advice,” he says anyhow.

“Sounds to me like you’re choosing not to take it.”

“Not quite,” Harry says. “I don’t think I’m as convinced of Louis’... evil as you are. That isn’t the side he’s shown me—”

“I didn’t know he’d shown you any side,” Rachel says, disbelievingly.

Harry backpedals. He gives a small shake of his head. “He just seems like a nice person to me.”

“They always do,” Rachel says with finality. “I’ve got to go find Rose. I wish you and Andy good luck dealing with the distance when the time comes.”

“Same to you and Rose.”

“Oh, I’m going with her,” Rachel says.

“Are you?”

“Of course. She asked me to come along,” Rachel says. “She’s never been abroad or travelled on her own. And as I said, she’s young and impressionable.”

Harry doesn’t know how to answer that. Rachel gives him this look like she knows why, though he can’t say it’s sympathetic.

“Thank you anyway, Harry,” she says. “See you around.”

He watches her leave, wiggling her polished fingers at him. Across the pub, he sees Andy with Kendra chatting up some suited, important-looking individuals. He looks at her and despite how much she’s changed in just a few months, he still sees his best friend. That doesn’t explain the intangible distance between them now.

He spots Louis somewhere else now, and Louis at the same time sees him. Harry hates that their gazes seem polarised to each other. He hates what it implies.

He doesn’t suspect Louis of villainy like Rachel wants him to. But he can’t come off as too trusting either, especially when that newfound trust stems from an incessant attraction to him. Louis _is_ Andy’s producer. Evil or not. His presence in Andy’s life might be inspiring her to distance herself from Harry. Intentionally or not. If she feels she can depend on someone else, what propels her to depend on Harry, to share professional concerns with him, to include him in her ventures?

Harry finishes his drink, which doesn’t help with the way his stomach is turning.

Liam joins him again, rambling about some famous person he’s just met while they grab food and hors d’evours. Harry manages to laugh in the right places and smile every five minutes, but his mind is elsewhere. At the other side of the room, for example, where Andy is now standing with Louis and the rest of her band.

_Young, impressionable._

The words ping like marbles on the inside of his head. He looks at Louis and thinks:

_Older. Impressive._

And then he needs fresh air.

He stays outside for much longer than intended, next to a scattered flock of smokers. He doesn’t necessarily get the air he’s looking for, but good conversations nonetheless. When he returns to the dim interior of the Ivy, Andy is positioned in front of a microphone. Her Les Paul is replaced by an all-black acoustic. The gold bee around her neck swings and shimmers as she sways.

It takes him a second to recognise the lyrics, slightly sped up as they are, but it’s Stay by Rihanna. A painfully fitting choice. He takes the line ‘it’s not much of a life you’re living’ to heart, because it’s true, isn’t it? It’s what he said to Louis less than a month ago. Once Andy was born, his life realigned with her at the centre. And if he loses her (as it seems he already is), what life will he have then?

What is a solar system without its sun?

It’s over quickly. Harry passes the time drowning in morbidity. He turns to Liam, as the band abandons their instruments. “Are you good yet to drive?” he asks him.

“Just about. Why? Ready to go so soon?” Liam says it like a joke. Harry doesn’t laugh. “You alright?”

Harry shakes his head. “I’ll explain later.” A look across the room confirms that Andy is surrounded by more suits, Louis included. “Let’s go for a walk till you’re ready to drive.”

“Not going to say bye to Andy?”

“She’s a bit busy,” Harry says.

Liam sets a hand on his shoulder and starts leading him across the room. “Not too busy for her own dad.”

They approach the crowd. Harry keeps his eyes on Andy, though he’s very aware of the gentleman beside her. She steps away politely when she sees him.

“Did you like the song?” she asks, lifting her brows.

“It was great,” Harry says. “You sounded lovely.”

“Thanks,” she says, grinning. She glances at Liam, who yanks her in for another hug.

“Can’t wait to hear you on the radio,” he says.

Her laughter comes muffled with her face pressed to his chest.

“We’re taking off now,” Harry says once Liam releases her.

Andy frowns. “It’s still early.”

“Long drive home and work in the morning,” Harry says, lifting his shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” she says. “Sorry I couldn’t talk much to you.”

“Don’t be.” Harry nudges her shoulder with his fist. “You’re mingling like a pro. I’m proud of you.”

She huffs a laugh and gives him a small smile. “I’ll see you next weekend definitely.”

“I’ll see you then,” Harry says. He hugs her and presses a quick kiss to her forehead. “Have fun.”

He and Liam leave, taking a plate of spanakopita and baklava for a midnight snack. That area of London, Covent Garden, is abnormally lifeless, even for a Sunday night. With neighbouring areas like Soho and Mayfair, some of the most active celebrity spots like the Ivy, and round-the-clock entertainment, it crowds easily. Tourists flock to it like starved birds. Tonight brings an eery scarcity of people on the streets. As sad as he already is, it doesn’t help.

They walk around for a bit, taking in what little there is to see. Then they end up back in the car and start the drive back to the flower shop.

“Andy is going to LA and Sweden soon, and who knows where else,” Harry murmurs. He’s so out of it he doesn’t even notice when Red Hot Chili Peppers’ ‘Fight Like a Brave’ starts up until it’s halfway through. Even then, he’s too tired to enjoy it.

“That’s what’s bothering you?” Liam asks, somewhat incredulously.

Harry looks at him. “Are you surprised?”

Liam sits quietly for a minute. He processes things a lot lately before he speaks, perhaps a residual effect of his expired relationship. Harry doesn’t know yet if he likes it or if he’d prefer for hear whatever’s on his mind whenever it arrives there. At least then he knows it’s the unfiltered truth.

“I thought you were ready for all this,” Liam says. “Did you expect her to be a star after only seeing half the world?”

“Of course not. But it’s a lot to process. She’s sixteen and thinks she can conquer the whole world alone. Rose is having Rachel come along with her. Andy didn’t even bother to ask me if I’d like to come.” Harry covers his eyes with his hand like a cold compress. “I never wanted to be the kind of parent who’s left out of the loop. I thought I’d succeeded in that, but I guess not.”

Liam processes again. Harry wants to tell him to just spit it out, but then Liam reaches out and squeezes Harry’s hand. It doesn’t comfort him but it quiets him. He rests his head against the window and doesn’t lift it again until he’s home.

They get ready for bed, still in sleepy silence, while Harry’s thoughts stay wide awake. He passes Andy’s room where Liam is sleeping, a cup of bedtime tea in hand when the door opens, and Liam stands there in just a pair of shorts, his broad chest exposed.

“H,” he says, halting him.

Harry’s eyes land on his chest. He laughs softly. “Still auditioning for World’s Strongest Man?”

“Shut up.” A nearly imperceptible smirk graces Liam’s mouth. “I just wanted to say— I’m heading back to LA soon, you know? So if it makes you feel any better, at least she won’t be there alone.”

“That does help. Thank you.” Harry pats Liam’s cheek. “I’m sorry you had to leave the party early.”

Liam bats the thought away like a pesky fly. “Think I got the most out of it.”

Harry smiles and they fall silent. His eyes flicker to Liam’s torso and then their eyes meet again.

This moment has happened before. Twice in university following bad break-ups and once after Andy’s sixth birthday party and two bottles of Merlot. They never had the right chemistry to sustain a relationship but a relationship was never the goal, just a conscience-quelling orgasm or two.

Harry hasn’t been able to shake the touch of Louis’ gaze since Friday. He hasn’t shaken the disappointment of not having a date to bring home either. The sad, simple fact is that another man hasn’t touched him in _months_. There wasn’t time while driving Andy back and forth to London for auditions and meetings, and moving her into her flat and still managing the shop in the midst of it. He had so little time that it never even bothered him. But it bothers him now.

Unlike jealousy and apparently clinging, responsibility doesn’t come easily to him. Being a parent has always made him painfully aware of that. Bedtime for Andy was nonexistent. Homework was sometimes sacrificed for impromptu guitar battles. Disciplining his daughter was and still is a myth, as is disciplining himself.

The point is that the responsible thing to do, given the circumstances, is to go into his own room, have his tea and sleep. Liam is newly single and vulnerable. Harry is merely seeking mental relief from the one man he’s sworn not to chase.

But Harry isn’t responsible.

He pats Liam’s cheek again and drops his hand.

He is however very tired.

“Maybe next time,” he says.

Liam huffs a laugh and turns away. “Don’t flatter yourself, H. Sleep tight.”

Harry takes a sip of his tea with his middle finger daintily extended. “Nighty night,” he sings, stepping into his lonely bedroom and nudging the door closed with his heel.

†

His duvet flies away from his body like a prop in a horror movie. His bare feet meet cool air and he groans, less concerned about the demon potentially stalking him and more about his aborted nap. He opens one eye and sees Gemma.

“What the fuck, Harry? What are you doing? Why have you still got your apron on?”

Harry reaches for the duvet sprawled at the foot of his bed. Gemma yanks it away again, balls it up and holds it in her arms.

“Andy’s got a gig today, remember?”

Harry presses his face into his pillow. “I don’t want to go.”

“Are you joking?” When he doesn’t respond, she asks, “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?”

Harry holds up his thumb and lifts finger after finger as he lists the following points: “Long day at the shop. My feet are sore. I was having a nice dream before you woke me. Also, Andy’s going to forget all about me someday. I’m going to be alone with a child who doesn’t remember me and dates who repeatedly stand me up.”

Gemma takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “Jesus, Harry.”

He turns on the mattress to face her. “I’m having a midlife crisis.”

“You’re 33.”

“I’m staging a protest in retaliation,” he says, ignoring her. “I’d much rather finish my nap and have a soak in the bath later.”

“You don’t mean that,” Gemma says gently. “You wouldn’t want to miss a single show, even if you’re upset.”

“I’d do it for a cause.”

“Harry.” Gemma slaps his thigh and stands. “Get up and get dressed.”

“I’m not joking.”

Gemma leaves the room, taking the duvet with her. “You’ve got ten minutes.”

He doesn’t move for five. Knowing how likely she is to return with a bowl of ice water, he pushes himself to his feet and shuffles into the loo. There’s no time to make much effort on his look, even if he was feeling up to it. He splashes cold water on his face, gathers his hair into a raggedy pile atop his head and pulls on a pair of boots.

“Your apron,” Gemma says, pointing to his torso.

He looks down at himself and sighs. He wears the damn thing so often sometimes he forgets it’s there. He tosses it onto the back of a chair. Shoving his sunglasses on, he follows his sister out the door and to the car.

The drive to Brighton feels longer than it is. They stop for sausage sandwiches along the way and recline in the car to finish them while traffic passes by on the M1. Harry runs back into the store to buy them hot chocolates and then they pull again onto the road. After a stop for petrol, things speed up. At least, to him they do. He dozes off and when he wakes, the Brighton Wheel stands in the distance ahead of him.

“You weren’t really planning not to come, were you?”

Harry doesn’t know why the question arrives now. He looks at his sister. “No. But I was planning to sleep. If I’m asleep, I can’t make decisions.”

“How can you sleep through your problems? Mine keep me awake.”

“Had a glass of wine first.” Harry smiles. “Works every time.”

Gemma shakes her head in dismay and laughs.

The Pier stretches on beside them. He can’t see much of it in the distance but the bright lights of the Marine Palace glow faintly against the darkening sky. He imagines it isn’t crowded at all, not during November. The water of the British Channel has grown dark but in his memories, it’s cerulean. He thinks of a hundred summers ago when he, Gemma, and Liam drove out here just to sleep on the beach. Andy was tiny enough then to nap sprawled atop Harry’s torso. Sometimes Niall was with them. Once, his mum tagged along.  As Andy grew older, they brought their guitars with them too. The sun would set and leave the two of them strumming beneath the stars.

He takes a breath of salty air and focuses on the road ahead.

The Haunt is the remnant of an old cinema, now renovated to host club nights and live music, including a slew of up-and-coming artists. Harry came here only two years ago with Andy to see Oasis and now, jarringly, he’s come to see Andy herself.

They park and enter the darkly lit skeleton of a long-ago screening room. Ahead of them is a bright neon light that simply reads ‘The Haunt.’

“Want a pint?” Gemma asks.

Harry nods and follows her to the bar. She orders two beers, pays, and they meander closer to the stage. Another band is on currently, two male guitarists at 30° angles behind the lead singer, a highlighter blonde with a wondrous Stratocaster. Not necessarily his kind of music, but they sound great. He’s so in-tuned he doesn’t see someone approaching him until they’re colliding in a blur of strawberry-scented air and glowing curls.

“You’re late,” Andy murmurs, her face buried against his shoulder. “I thought you were going to miss it.”

Harry glances at Gemma, who’s already looking at him. She lifts her brows knowingly and lifts her beer to her mouth. Harry curls his arm around Andy’s shoulders and squeezes her.

“Was just feeling tired. Gem had to come get me out of bed.”

Andy looks at him sternly. “You promised, remember?” she says. “Every show, if you can make it.”

“I did,” Harry says. He flicks her in her dimple. “Don’t worry. I’m still your number one fan.”

She flicks him back. “Don’t forget it.”

There isn’t much time for her to stay and chat. She joins the rest of her band and then mounts the stage. She looks at him often and smiles throughout the set. The guilt eats at him. She would have looked for him all night if he wasn’t there. Her eyes would have drifted constantly to random spots hoping he’d be standing there. He gets that now.

He gets caught up so often in the parameters of being a parent. He expects Andy to tell him things and to confide in him at every turn and every crossroad. But maybe it isn’t that simple. He doesn’t know why she’s keeping him at a distance. He hates that she is.

But he’s still her biggest fan, has been from the moment she was born and will be for as long as she allows him.

†

It was late.

Frost covered the dark windows on Harry’s path to the guest bedroom. The hardwood floors were cold on his bare feet. Everything since Monday had been cold and not in the way that winter was known to be. Not in the way that compelled him to bundle up in a coat or scarf.

It was an unending, intangible cold. It made his shoulders feel like lead pipes and his feet drag on until he came to the room and weakly, pushed the door open.

The cot was positioned in the corner and his little galaxy was asleep.

He crept forward slowly. Each step was marked by tears and he was never the one to wake her or change her nappies. But he knew the way. She slept soundly, frail eyelids closed, small hands curled up like peppermint swirls.

He leaned over the cot, sliding his finger into her palm. “Hi, little bee.”

A tear fell to her tiny stomach. He dragged his free hand beneath his nose pointlessly. He put his forehead in his palm and allowed the sob that slipped from his mouth to stretch on. His body shook with the force of it. He'd reached the point of crying where it felt impossible to stop. But he did stop and took a breath. He used the end of his ratty T-shirt to dry his face and then reached into the cot, curling both hands gently beneath Andy’s body. He lifted her and cradled her against his chest, one hand to the back of her head like his mum had taught him. He turned and shuffled out of the room.

His feet were soft on the floorboards, but he worried someone would wake anyhow, find him and question him. He was so tired of people asking questions. That was all they ever did.

He shut his bedroom door behind himself and returned to his bed, laying Andy down on the space beside him, climbing in after her. He curled himself protectively around her. He wasn’t worried about smothering her or rolling atop her in his sleep. He hadn’t slept deeply enough for that in days.

He ran his hand gently through her fine curly hair. Another tear slipped down the length of his nose. He pressed his trembling lips to her forehead and watched her.

“Just you and me now,” he mumbled.

He felt lulled by the slow rise and fall of her tummy. If he listened closely enough, he could hear her small breaths. She was impossibly tiny and beautiful, a micro version of her mother and the only version he had left.

 

†

He doesn’t get any time with her after the gig either. It may be winter in Brighton but she and the other girls decide to go down to the beach, all bundled in their coats. They have plans to stay in town overnight and head home in the morning. With work at first light for him and Gemma, they say their goodbyes and let her go.

“I think you’re projecting.”

Again, Gemma’s commentary comes from nowhere. He isn’t in the mood for it this time. He looks at her, expressionless.

“You’re worried she’ll forget you, so every step she makes it seems like she's moving further away. Be careful you don't _push_ her away.”

"I wouldn't."

"Not purposefully, no. But you need to have more faith in her, and you’ve got to start now. Because when she's a hundred miles away, it’ll be even more important then. You’re her favourite person in the world. Trust that.”

Harry clenches his jaw, looking down at the tops of his boots. He stuffs his hands in his pockets. Gemma slips her arm around her waist and squeezes him.

“Don’t look so glum,” she says. “Let’s head home, yeah?”

Harry nods, feeling a bit like a child and not just from the way she’s coddling him. Gemma releases him and starts toward the exit.

“Harry.”

He comes to a stop and slowly, turns his head. Louis approaches him with a smile. A smile that on another occasion might inspire Harry to talk with him for a long moment. But Harry isn’t in the mood for him either. “Hi,” he replies.

“Hi,” Louis says. “How are you?”

“Good.”

Louis’ brows twitch. “Did you enjoy the set?”

“It was really nice, yeah.”

A beat of silence passes. Harry points his thumb in Gemma’s direction. “I have to go. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us. It was good to see you.”

Louis opens his mouth to say something else, something more than just ‘Good to see you too.’

Harry halts him with “Have a good night.” He manages a smile and then he turns and meets Gemma, waiting at the door. It’s instantaneous how badly he feels once he’s out of sight. He regrets the encounter the entire drive home.

†

**DECEMBER 2016**

Two weeks pass.

On the 22nd of November, The Wonderlands release another cover, this time of FourFiveSeconds, which garners a surprising amount of traction on social media and has them trending on Twitter for a full day.

They release a web interview on the 30th.

One of the questions posed to them on YouTube: What’s your favourite thing to do?

Kendra says playing video games. Rose, playing football. For Mercy, it’s doing make-up.

Andy is the last to answer that particular question. She’s sitting on the bed, legs crossed, and looking hesitant. “I’m probably going to sound like such a kid saying this. But it’s probably just hanging out with my dad. Playing guitar or something.”

“Your dad’s pretty cool,” Kendra says. “No shame in that.”

The other girls agree and they move on to the next question but Harry thinks about it for hours.

To celebrate the start of December the following day, he and Gemma go Christmas shopping. She shops. Harry carts Alfie around in his arms and shares a bowl of frozen yoghurt with him and chases him around the clothing racks at Harrods. They take him for pictures with Santa afterwards and dinner at some family-friendly low-budget buffet.

“I asked Andy to babysit for me next weekend,” Gemma says, picking at her chicken. “I’m telling you because I know how touchy you get about people robbing you of time with her.”

“I don’t get touchy,” Harry scoffs. “That’s fine with me.”

“I figured it would be since you’ll see her for that gig coming up. In Glasgow, yeah?”

“Yup. Still not coming along?”

“I can’t. It’s date night with Ralph and I cancelled on him last month.” Gemma wipes mashed potatoes from Alfie’s face. “Plus, Liam’s going, isn’t he? You two’ll get pissed and find random blokes to take back to your hotel rooms, I’m sure.”

“God, I hope so,” Harry says. “You know I actually considered sleeping with Liam a few weeks ago.”

“That bad?” Gemma pouts.

“I guess.”

“Any word on Louis?”

Harry looks at her, face twisted like the garlic roll on his plate. “Why have we gone from talking about men in my hotel room to Louis? Do they relate at all?”

“I don’t know. Do they?”

“They don’t,” Harry answers. “I’ve been on my best behaviour.”

Gemma looks at Alfie, her brows raised. “Do you believe that, bub? Uncle Harry on his best behaviour?” She shoots Harry a look. “Neither of us believe you.”

“Then both of you are wrong,” Harry says and punctuates the topic with a smile and a bite of his barbecued chicken wing.

†

He and Liam divvy up the five-hour drive to Glasgow. He drives for about three hours and Liam takes what’s left. They journey up past their hometowns, through Liverpool and Manchester, and after several stops and a rainfall or two, past the Scottish border. Glasgow, when they arrive, is how Harry remembers it. Bright and green, stunningly built, and constantly humming with excitement. As usual, he thinks of his days spent here with Cassie. Back then, they took the bus, stayed at shitty hostels or campgrounds, and lied to their parents about their motives.

Harry lost his virginity in Glasgow to some boy he shared a blunt with in Kelvingrove Park. The bumpy bus ride back home the next morning was so painful, Cassie laughed and laughed. He despised her but of course, came back with her the following month. Glasgow, along with Leeds and Brighton, was their freedom hub, their haven. Miles away from home, this city gave them a chance to be unapologetically themselves.

He and Liam arrive early in the morning with enough time to pick Andy up from the hotel, stroll around the city and have lunch with her. She leaves them immediately afterwards to meet up with her band and they check in at the hotel — one room for each of them. After a shower and a fresh pair of clothes, he heads back to the lobby to meet Liam, checking in with Andy on his way. Sound check went well, she says, and he’ll _love_ the song they’ve chosen.

His smile dissipates when he reaches the lobby. It’s not Liam he sees but Louis. Again, he’s stood next to his dark-haired friend, both of them at the concierge with their luggage, both wearing leather jackets. It’s an unhappy thought but they’d make a stylish couple.

Harry turns away, lifting his coat off his arm. He begins to pull it on when a distracted bellboy bumps into him. The man apologises profusely.

“It’s alright,” Harry says with a smile, pushing his arm through his coat. It’s his voice that alerts Louis to him. From the corner of his eye, he sees him turn and there’s no escaping the moment they take notice of each other.

“Hey,” Harry says.

Louis’ friend turns as well and the two of them stare. “Hi,” Louis says. The silence for that one second is unbearable. To his friend, Louis mentions, “This is Andy’s dad, Harry.”

Harry steps forward to shake the man’s hand. ‘Zayn Malik’ is how he introduces himself. The name rings a distant bell. “Nice to finally meet you,” Harry says. Immediately, the ‘finally’ seems odd. Quickly, he says, “I’ve seen you around a few times.”

Zayn nods, his lips curling. “I’m around a lot.”

Louis’ eyes narrow slightly on Harry.

“Zayn is another artist under the label,” he says, setting a hand comfortably on Zayn’s shoulder. “He was working independently for a while but we’re aiming to make him global now.”

Zayn grins, eyes brighter when they land on Louis. It’s strange now that Harry ever missed this phenomenon. It seems anyone who gets to know Louis extensively begins to look at him as if he were made of gold. Even Harry, at one point, looked at Louis that way. Even now, as Louis smiles, he feels compelled to.

“Congratulations,” Harry says. “I wish you the best.”

“Same to your daughter,” Zayn replies. “I’ll be there at the gig tonight. Bet she’ll be amazing, as usual.”

Harry’s not surprised to find him likeable. It seems all of the artist Louis signs are, barring Rose (but she’s got time to improve). “Thank you,” he says to Zayn. And with another glance at Louis, “I should probably go. And let you get settled in.”

“See you at the show,” Louis says.

Harry spots Liam stepping off the lifts. He says to Louis, “See you then.”

†

Glasgow’s performance is at a newer pub called Broadcast. Harry hasn’t been in town recently enough to know when it sprung up in the first place. But it wasn’t here in 98’. He would have remembered, considering how much he likes it now. It’s managed to garner that classic Scottish vibe with a modern edge like the high-end spots surrounding it.

It’s a Saturday night, which must have been a difficult time-slot for the girls to snag. The queue is about twenty people long. Not awful but the inside is packed. He and Liam end up by the bar, order pints, and start discussing a strategy for getting to the front.

“Probably shouldn’t have stopped for those burgers,” Liam says.

“And miss out on The Admiral?” Miss out on _tradition_ ? Harry scoffs. “No. We’re only here for one night. We _had_ to go.”

Liam sips his beer. “Would have got here much earlier if we didn’t.”

Harry ignores him and glances around in search of Mercy’s parents or Kendra’s dad or Rachel who’ve all come out tonight, but the crowd is dense and the oblong shape of the venue doesn’t allow for much sight range. They’ll have to push their way to the front then.

“Hi again.”

Harry lowers his mobile, a message to Andy forgotten, and smiles at Louis standing right there in front of him. His head is slightly ducked to catch Harry’s gaze. The leather jacket on him looks like dark chocolate fudge. Harry blames the analogy on having skipped dessert.

“Hi.” He leans close to be heard. “This place is ridiculous.”

“Come with me,” Louis says. Behind him is his big security guard. “We’ll get you to the front.”

Harry nods for Liam to follow and keeps his steps close to Louis’. He sees Zayn up ahead, a few others from his Louis’ team, and the other parents too. With the security man cutting their path, they end up right at front. There’s not enough room for Liam to stand right beside him, so he stands behind him and Louis.

Louis turns to Harry. “Good?”

“Perfect. Thank you,” Harry says. “This is my best mate, Liam, by the way.”

Louis twists around to shake his hand.

“Nice to meet you,” Liam says. He introduces himself to Zayn as well.

“This is Alberto,” Louis says, pointing his thumb towards the security man.

Harry nods to him. “Thanks for your help.”

“Not a problem,” Alberto replies.

With introductions concluded, they all take sips of their drinks or look to the stage. Louis murmurs something to Zayn. Liam says something to Harry but he can hardly hear him.

Louis stays directly beside him. They’ve both got one hand in their pocket and another around their drink. Their shoulders bump but Harry pretends not to notice. They don’t speak again. It’s too loud to try without shouting or getting close (and they’re close enough already). Harry has nothing to say that would seem fitting right now. So he sips his beer and waits until a woman in a mini plaid dress steps onto the stage.

“We’ve got a very special band with us tonight. This is their fourth gig so far, I believe. But they’re doing amazingly well for being so new and so young and we’re excited to have them here with us! So please everyone, put your hands together. These are The Wonderlands.”

She says their name with a saucy shimmy of her shoulders, hooks the mic back into the stand, and departs. The spotlights dim as she goes.

To the folks at the back of the pub, the girls would be silhouettes, not enough light to define any of them clearly. But from where he stands, Harry sees Andy immediately when she steps into the open. Her curly hair is pulled up into a loose bun. He can’t tell exactly what colour she’s wearing but he thinks pink. She approaches the mic stand, adjusts it and then sets her hands on her guitar.

“One, two, three, four…” he hears her call softly into the microphone. At four, Kendra’s drumsticks come down on the cymbals and Andy strokes her strings. She plays a short riff and then gives the guitar line over to Rose. Her mouth meets the mic.

“My mother told me I should go and get some therapy…”

Harry grins, lifting his hands and cupping them around his mouth. He yells for her and for this song. He loves this song. He leans close to Louis and says loudly, “I _love_ this song.”

“She said you would,” Louis says back.

They share a smile and Harry turns toward the stage again, bouncing lightly on his toes.

Andy sings, “She said hey!”

“Hey!” the girls shout behind her.

“It's alright. Does it make you feel alive?”

Harry wants to mount the stage and be a backup dancer. Because yes, he feels alive. That’s his daughter in the pink. His daughter shredding the absolute shit out of her guitar. His daughter singing her heart out.

Does that make him feel alive?

Yes, it fucking does.

“She said hey, it’s alright if it makes you feel alive.”

Mercy sings the next verse. She has a gossamer, wispy voice, much higher in pitch than Andy’s. Her parents, like Harry, are having a hell of a good time.

It's the perfect song for them to cover at the ascent of their career and descent into the industry. It speaks volumes about youth and defiance and determination, all values Harry wholeheartedly supports.

At the end of the chorus the second time around, suddenly Rose begins to play. It’s not a riff he remembers from the song. He glances at Louis and finds his brows creased, his beer bottle frozen before it can meet his mouth. Harry looks at Andy, who’s twisted around slightly and looks at Rose. Only for a second before she turns again and shuts her eyes, nodding along to the drum beat. Her brow remains wrinkled. She waits for the right note, fingers finding her strings, and begins to sing again, “We gotta live before we get older. Do what we like. We got nothing to lose.” She smiles and does a little shimmy. “Shake off the weight of the world from your shoulders.” Harry laughs. He loves it. The girls sing a harmonious ‘oh-oh-oh’. “We got nothing to prove.”

Louis whistles loudly and Harry finds himself doing the same, the two of them hooting like idiots, loud enough to burst eardrums. They sing the chorus one last time, leading the audience in a clap, their hands lifted above their heads.

It all comes to a stunning end with the guitar fading out, Andy's voice trailing off, and Kendra beating once, twice, three times on her drums, and crashing down on the cymbals. The crowd goes wild. He and Louis are wilder.

They play three songs afterwards but that one is the highlight of the night. ‘Cherry Bomb’ by the Runaways comes very, very close. Harry wears himself out singing along to them all. He looks over once to find Louis laughing at him and he doesn't mind at all.

When it’s over, The Wonderlands depart the stage and Harry waits impatiently for Andy while another group starts setting up and the house music trickles from the surrounding speakers. She appears after another five minutes, her guitar case strapped on her back. Harry holds his arms out for her and she steps into them, squeezes him and steps back.

Her smile is small. Harry’s brows furrow and he nods toward the exit, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, and walks with her there. Liam doesn’t notice them leave, engaged in a conversation with Zayn.

It’s frigid outside, now that the sun has set entirely. He tugs her coat more tightly around her shoulders and gives her a look. “You were amazing.”

“We messed up,” she says.

“I didn't notice. I don't think anyone did.”

She shrugs. “Thanks for coming.”

Just then, Mercy steps outside. “There you are,” she says. “Hi, Harry!”

“Hey. You sounded great tonight,” Harry says. He looks at Andy. “All of you.”

Mercy smiles. “Thank you. Thanks for coming too.” She stuffs her hands in her pockets. “Hey, Bee. You want to walk back to the hotel now? Or are you staying here?”

Andy glances at Harry.

“Want to come out with me and Liam tonight?” he asks. “We can go for milkshakes.”

Andy rolls her eyes. “Please. I know you’ve got big plans for tonight. Taking me along won’t do you any good.”

“I don’t—” He begins and she narrows her eyes. He sighs loudly. “Okay. Making sure you’re alright is more important than meeting men.”

“I’m _fine_. Honestly, I’m just tired. I’ve been up all day,” she says, adjusting her guitar strap on her shoulder. “Seriously, go have fun. I’m going to bed.”

“Are you sure?”

Andy sighs and turns away. “Good night, Dad.”

She joins up with Mercy, who loops their arms together and calls ‘Good night’ to Harry as they go. A second later, Kendra steps out of the pub with Rose. They say 'good night' to him too and then hurry to catch up.

With an exhale, he turns and heads back inside. Liam steps through the doors before he can. Zayn is at his side. “One second,” Liam says. Zayn nods, extracting a cigarette from his coat pocket, and stalks a few feet away to allow them privacy.

Liam draws closer to Harry, voice dropping low as he speaks. “I’m going to go for a drink with him. The rest of the group, I hear, is going somewhere else.”

Harry angles his body away from Zayn so he can’t read his lips. He hisses, “That’s not the plan. We’re supposed to be in this together.”

Liam groans. “I know, but look at him. He asked if I wanted a drink. You expect me to say no?”

“But that’s not the _plan_ ,” Harry repeats.

“One drink. Maybe two. And I’ll meet up with you afterwards. Promise.”

Harry rubs vigorously at his forehead. “I can’t even look at you.”

Liam laughs, squeezing his shoulder. “The night’s still young.” He tosses Harry’s hair around like they’re still university boys, not grown men trying to meet other grown men. Liam apparently already has that taken care of. “I’ll see you soon.”

He leaves Harry standing there, stunned and alone. Harry tilts his head back and peers up at the sky, looking for answers or an outstretched hand. Right now he could use one. Perhaps even an attractive man, floating on a cloud. He’d definitely take that.

He doesn’t want to go anywhere with the rest of the group. He doesn’t want to go anywhere with anyone anymore.

He takes one step toward the hotel.

“Not heading back to your room, are you?”

He comes to a halt, then turns back.

Louis stands there, hands jammed in his pockets, his brows lifted.

“Liam took off with Zayn, actually,” Harry begins. “I was meant to go out with him. So, I think I'll probably head back, yeah. I’m feeling tired anyway.”

Louis smiles. “You don’t look tired.”

Harry shrugs. He thinks Louis might be lying. He thinks he always looks tired.

“We’re going for a few pints, me and some of the team,” Louis says. “A few of the parents too, I think. Ever been to The Waterloo?”

“I love it there,” Harry says truthfully. But he still doesn’t want to go. Not with the parents or the team. He doesn’t.

“You should come," Louis says.

He won't.

“Alright," Harry says.

†

Being around Louis is a constant show of illogic for Harry. He finds himself thinking things, saying things, feeling things he knows he shouldn’t. Every step feels like a misstep. He determines one route and goes the other. He resolves to distance himself and finds himself here, at a gay bar sitting close enough to Louis to catch periodic, maddening whiffs of his cologne.

He turns to him, after the other parents have encircled the bar to buy drinks.

“I’ve been meaning to say something to you all evening and haven’t found a proper time to.”

Louis’ expression is the closest to nervous that Harry’s ever seen. Perhaps cautious is a better word.

“I’m sorry about Brighton,” Harry says. “I was cold to you and you didn’t deserve that. At the album release party, I thought about you sending the girls all over the world soon and it reminded me that you’re Andy’s producer — her _boss_ , essentially. And as her dad— It’s fine for us to be friends but only on a strictly professional basis.”

Louis’ lips twitch. He looks away, licking his top one. Maddening. “I understand,” he says simply.

Harry chews the inside of his jaw. “You probably didn’t even notice I was off.”

Louis shakes his head. “No, I definitely noticed.”

“Oh.” Harry glances at his hands in his lap. He watches the other parents disperse. Some meander towards the dance floor. Again, he speaks, “I also never got a chance to say thank you for the other night at the pub. As out of line as I was, I really did appreciate the company.”

Louis nods, smiling. “Great.”

“Great…” Harry repeats, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“So, how about shots?” Louis asks.

A surprised laugh slips from Harry’s mouth. “I’m sorry, I just apologised for being an embarrassment and you want a _repeat_?”

“Well, I don’t know about you but I had a good time that night. You did too. So,” Louis says. “Shots?”

Harry stares at him. He laughs again, eyes drifting around the club in search of answers. He shakes his head and looks at Louis. “Why the fuck not?”

Louis drums his hand against the bar, grinning. “Good choice,” he says, signalling the barman.

They order five shots of tequila each, all lined up. They take the first two back-to-back, clinking their tiny glasses together. They set the glasses down, bottoms up, and smile. Harry feels them immediately, warming the skin along his chest and arms.

“Were you upset about the travelling when you heard?” Louis asks.

Harry sweeps his fringe away from his eyes. “No, not with you,” he says. “Rachel is, though. She doesn’t trust you.”

“I don’t really expect any of you to trust me,” Louis says. “I try to be the kind of producer that you could trust if you wanted to. But I don’t expect it.”

“Well, prior to us having a few drinks together—”

“Think we’re a little past a few now,” Louis says, smiling.

Harry smirks. “Prior to us having _a lot_ of drinks together, I can’t say I trusted you either. And now— I still don’t know you very well… but I think you’re trustworthy.”

“What do you want to know?”

Harry’s brow creases.

“About me?” Louis says. “Since you don’t know me well?” He lifts his second shot glass and gestures to Harry’s. They tap their glasses together again and down their shots. A thud and the glasses sit overturned.

“Why did you stop singing?”

“I sing all the time,” Louis says.

“Why did you stop singing professionally?” Harry specifies. “Recording music and all that?”

Louis runs his thumb along the edge of a shot glass. “I wanted to help people and I didn’t think I could do that if I was singing songs that weren’t true.” He runs his palms down his thighs, which distracts Harry for a moment from the words leaving his mouth. “We wrote this song one year that people hailed as an LGBT anthem and I loved that. I wanted everything I did to feel something like that. Helping people when they’re down. Helping people the word doesn’t root for.” He shrugs, lifting another shot glass. Harry does the same. “That’s a bit more than you asked for, but it about sums it up.”

They throw the shots back.

“Not more than I asked for,” Harry says. “I don’t think I’ve ever read that in an article.”

“Well, well, well. This is news,” Louis says, setting his shot glass on the bar. “You read articles about me?”

“I’ve read a few, yeah,” Harry says nonchalantly. “I’m actually pretty educated on things concerning you. I had to be when you decided to sign my daughter.”

“That’s your reasoning?” Louis grins. “You’re sure you’re not a fan?”

Harry looks away, turning his dimpled cheek to Louis. “I used to listen to your music all the time, with Andy.”

Louis gasps. “No, you didn’t.”

“I did. Your songs came on the radio.”

“And you didn’t change the station?”

“No,” Harry says, laughing. “That song they performed, I loved that one. Andy and I are classic rock fiends, to be honest. But that song and your voice— It was really good. Definitely my favourite.”

Louis lifts his brows and exhales a soft breath. “You really know how to talk to a lad, Styles.”

“I’m not trying to woo you, _Tomlinson_. Remember, we’re keeping it professional.”

“Right, of course,” Louis says. “Actually, that song— It was one I helped write. And there’s a bit of a story behind it. Some of the fans sort of figured it out but I never confirmed it. I liked the thought of people taking from it what they wanted. Not what I intended.”

“What did you intend?” Harry asks, resting the side of his head in his palm.

“If you switch all the pronouns and listen to it again, suddenly it becomes a song about a boy figuring out his sexuality. You’ll have to listen to it again. But I wanted it to be about doing whatever felt right, even if the world makes you think it’s wrong.”

Harry smiles slowly. “I like that. You know, with the girls singing it, using female pronouns, I think it achieves the same effect.”

“That it does. Also intentional,” Louis says, grinning. “I didn’t explain all that to them. But they’re smart girls. I like to think they’d figure it out.”

Harry reaches for his last shot, prompting Louis to lift his own. “Cheers,” he says.

“To what?” Louis asks.

Harry searches for the right words. So tipsy by now, he struggles. “The gay agenda.”

Louis laughs and they toast, eyes on each other, until they throw their heads back with the glasses to their mouths.

“We should dance,” Harry says.

Louis glances toward the DJ booth and the strangers swaying and jumping with their hands in the air.

“Such a professional thing to do.”

Harry scoffs, popping up to his feet. “Seriously, I need to dance. Put those shots to use.”

“Alright then.” Louis pushes himself up from his seat. “Lead the way.”

Harry doesn’t reach for his hand to ensure they stay together. But he glances behind himself often to check that he’s there. Harry finds them a spot and they look at each other again, somewhat bashfully.

“What’s the matter?” Louis asks, stepping close to be heard. “Are you nervous now?”

“Are you?” Harry asks, starting to move his hips side to side. He has to speak with his mouth close to Louis’ ear. The scent of his cologne rises like steam from his body. “Just imagine you’ve got those red trousers on.”

Louis laughs, loudly and unrestricted, head tilted back, hands slapping together.

Harry feels those five shots of tequila in every corner of his mind, in the centre of his chest and the soles of his feet. When he looks again, Louis is moving too, allowing the music to touch him like the alcohol has touched them both. Lucky that it’s some thumping, electronic drivel. A fist bump here and roll of their hips there suffices just fine. But Louis turns out to be a man of hidden talent. Not that Harry is surprised.

They grow close without realising. Their hands aren’t on each other but every other part of their bodies is. Their eyes meet. Harry smiles, slowly, drunkenly, and invites Louis’ palms to his hips where they curl and hold firmly. There’s a word bouncing around his brain. Professionalism, he thinks? But he’s forgotten its definition.

“You’re good at this,” Louis says into his ear.

Harry throws his arm atop Louis’ shoulder and curves his hand around the back of his neck. “You’re very good.”

Louis’ eyes fall on his lips. An unexpected burst of discernment makes Harry turn. It’s not his brightest move. With his back to Louis’ chest, all that’s left to do is grind on him. So he does. Louis’ arms slide across his waist, technicolour spotlights catching on all those pretty tattoos from his wrists to his elbows.

Having another man’s hands on him is the purest kind of intoxication. It’s been too long. He’s drunk and chooses to indulge. Epicurus would be proud of how thoroughly he indulges, pushing his arse into Louis’ crotch, running his fingers across Louis’ forearms.

His cock is all for this.

Louis grasps his hips again and brings him to a still. “We’ve got company.”

Harry turns to face him. Instead of scoping out their supposed company, he looks at Louis’ visibly flushed cheeks and smiles. “Fresh air?”

“Please,” Louis says.

They step into the frigid night air. On their fevered skin, it’s a relief. The blood still rushing below his waist begins to slow.

Louis tilts his head back, breath sending small clouds back to the troposphere. “Really something else.” The sky above them is crystal clear, so many stars it’s nearly a sheet of glowing white. But Louis glances at Harry after he speaks and the words are clearly meant for him.

Harry grins. “I’m equally impressed. That suit and tie you’re always wearing are deceptive.”

“Judging a book by its cover?” Louis questions. “Didn’t think you were the type.”

“I’m usually not,” Harry says, studying each of Louis’ crystal blue eyes. “I’m sorry I was with you. You’re not what you seem at all.”

“How do I seem?”

Harry pretends to give it thought. “Cold sometimes.”

“But I’m not?”

“No. I’ve got proof now that you’re quite warm.” Harry smiles, pleased with himself.

Louis looks down at his feet for a moment. When he lifts his head again, his cheeks are slightly pink, Harry suspects, not from the cold. He smiles wider. “Come on. Let’s head back to the hotel.”

Louis lifts his brows. “In a strictly professional manner, of course.”

“What does that even mean? _Professional_?” Harry groans. “A word of advice: Don’t listen to anything I say when I’m sober.”

Like a school boy, Louis giggles, the back of his hand to his mouth. In the drunken, turning tunnels of his mind, Harry thinks of Louis in secondary school, beardless and suited in plaid, not Tom Ford. He imagines Louis at 15 and himself before he was a father and thinks he would have chased Louis until he’d worn his soles into nothingness.

They fall into step beside each other and start back to the hotel. The street lamps are dim and scarce. If he weren’t with Louis, he might walk a little faster. It starts to get cold on the way, as their sweat dries and any lingering traces of arousal in Harry’s blood slip away. Louis stuffs his hands into his pockets. Harry curls his arms across his torso.

“You asked me if I was upset about LA and I said not with you,” Harry begins randomly. “But I was a little upset with Andy. Usually, she comes to me about everything, especially when she’s got big things ahead of her. She hasn’t really with this.”

The words come unprompted. He wants someone to listen to his inebriated woes and right now, that someone is Louis.

“You think you’re growing apart?” Louis asks, slowly like he’s forcing himself to be sober and sensible.

“I think it’s bound to happen soon enough. At least a little bit. Especially when she’s not even in the same country.”

“You could visit her while she’s away if she stays in any one place long enough. Stay with her in LA a few weeks, for example. I bet she’d like that.”

It’s a comforting thought. He’s only ever been to LA once to visit Liam. He liked it that one time and he's longed to go back. Being there with Andy would be a blast, he’s sure.

“Maybe if she asks. Don’t want to force myself where I’m not wanted,” Harry says.

Louis smiles sympathetically. “Fair enough, but I doubt you're not wanted.”

They walk in silence until they reach the zebra crossing. When they reach the opposite side of the street, Louis says, “I hope you don’t think I’m trying to take her away from you. It’s not personal, you know? It’s about her career.”

“Of course,” Harry says. “Never said I blamed you.”

Louis purses his lips, eyes on the path ahead of them. “Just in case.”

Harry glances at him. “I’m sorry that every time we’re together, all I talk about is Andy and my issues. It’s not to make you feel bad or guilty.”

Louis looks at him, a smirk on his mouth. “What else would we talk about, Harry? That’s professional, isn’t it? We’re friends for the sake of your daughter, right?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Harry breathes and they laugh.

“I don’t mind,” Louis says. “I like hearing your stories about your family. I’ve kind of grown a bit distant from my own, aside from my mum I guess.”

“Why’s that?”

Louis shrugs. “Trying to reach the top means you sacrifice other things. Like more time for family get-togethers and trips home. After a while, people begin to resent you for that. My siblings and I stay in touch but there’s so many of them, it’s difficult.”

For a moment, the expression on his face — the cool, slight downturn of his lips — reminds Harry of the band’s first rehearsal. It troubles him more than he expects. He doesn’t realise how much he’s come to appreciate an open, honest Louis Tomlinson until that version is in danger of receding.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Harry says. “I just have my sister and it’s hard enough keeping up with her. I can imagine how it is for you, as busy as you are.”

“That’s exactly it,” Louis says. He smiles. “And of course, I've got no child of my own to dote on me.”

“Do you want children?” Harry asks. If not for the alcohol, he wouldn’t have.

“Absolutely,” Louis says without pause. “Running out of time, I feel, but in the next few years, things could change.”

Harry wants to ask how or what he means but he abstains this time as they enter the hotel and approach the lifts.

“Tell me more about Andy,” Louis says. “About you as a young dad. I’m curious.”

Harry responds to that as if it were a compliment. He feels his cheeks and ears grow warm and wonders why. Possibly because men don’t ask him about Andy or about his time as a young father. Men never seem to care.

The lift doors open. They step inside. Harry leans against one mirrored wall. “What do you want to know?”

“Start from the beginning.”

Harry lifts his brows, drawing a deep breath. He thinks for a second, trying to find the right place. The lift doors open again when he finds it and they step into the corridor, progressing slowly.

“Well, after losing Andy’s mum, I stayed home for a little while wanting to take care of her myself. I took a gap year, then considered taking another one, and then my mum forced me to go back to school. A week after my graduation, my grandmum passed and I wanted to leave home, so I begged my dad to let me have her shop. And a month later, I moved out with Andy.”

Louis’ blue eyes are locked on him as if the space between his gaze and Harry’s face is a viewfinder. He’s so attentive without having to try. Harry wants to disclose his every detail. Sadly, he’s still too drunk for that.

“The flat above the flower shop was a mess. It was the size of a fucking cupboard, I swear. My grandmum had used it for storage mostly and for the kitchen to bake. The plumbing didn’t work in the loo. The bedrooms were dusty with broken floorboards and holes in the walls. My friends and I worked on fixing it up for a few months, slapped some paint around and some nice rugs. It cleaned up nicely. And then it was just me and Andy and the shop. She was four then and she became the flower shop baby. We made good business because of her. She had this ukulele she liked to bring down with her and this one song she’d sing as people left. _Flowers Are Pretty and So Are You._ ”

“Love it,” Louis says, smiling.

Harry pictures her sitting atop the worktop, plucking at her little wooden instrument. He smiles too.

“She was so good at it all, I went and bought her this children’s guitar and that was how it all started.”

They’ve stopped at Harry’s hotel room, leaning against the walls there.

“Any other questions you have will have to wait until next time,” Harry says, regretfully.

“Just one more,” Louis says.

Harry holds a small breath.

“Is it lonely now at the flat?” Louis asks. “You said it was tiny but does it feel larger now without her?”

Harry pauses, eyes running across Louis’ face. He hates to think of himself as needy or desperate for attention. But having someone care about the things he pretends not to is satisfying. Louis’ gaze, the thread of space between his lips, it all breathes life and fire into the sleeping dragon of need in Harry’s chest. This is what he’s wanted without knowing it. He spends so much time caring for his daughter. Now someone seems to care a little about him.

“Not terribly lonely,” Harry says quietly. “I’m starting to enjoy the privacy actually. I get to walk around completely naked.”

Louis crosses his arms over his chest. He smiles slowly. “Really?”

“Absolutely,” Harry says, crossing one leg over the other. “It’s freeing.”

“I bet.”

“You should see me,” Harry says, smile sliding up his cheeks. “Straight out of the shower. Sometimes I don’t even dry off.”

Louis doesn’t reply for a moment. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

“No,” Harry says with an abrupt laugh. “Why? Are you seduced?”

“A little bit, yeah.”

Harry slaps his hands to his face and drags them down past his nose and his mouth. “What is this?” he asks. “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know,” Louis says, eyes again dipping downward to Harry’s lips. “But I’m okay with that.”

Harry shakes his head. “We can’t.”

Again Louis pauses before replying. The silence for Harry is weakening.

“Can’t what exactly?” Louis asks. “I’m just standing here.”

Except he’s not. Harry swears he’s drawn closer, enough to touch.

Harry takes a steeling breath. “Okay. Well, you…” He pushes his fingertips against Louis’ chest. Yes, he’s that close. The firm muscle there pushes back. He licks his lips. “You stand there and I’m going to open my door and go inside and go to bed.”

And if Louis happens to step inside too, who will know?

“Okay,” Louis says. He lets a second pass between them before he steps closer.

Harry rakes a lock of hair away from his face. He wants his mouth unobstructed for this.

“I’m still a little drunk,” Louis says, almost apologetically.

“A little?”

“Or maybe a lot,” Louis says. “I think I’ve got a little crush on you too…”

Harry’s skin along his cheeks and neck prickle with another burst of heat. “Such a scandal,” he says, glancing at Louis’ smirking mouth. “I think we should probably stop drinking together.”

“Probably,” Louis agrees.

Harry reaches for him with the intent to grab hold of his jacket and delete that pesky foot of space between them. “Louis,” he begins. His name rolls like a breeze off his tongue.

They hear the ding of the lift, followed by a familiar onslaught of voices.

Louis takes a big step back, sliding his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. Harry crosses his arms over his chest as Zayn rounds the corner with a stumble and a sleepy smile. The rest of their crowd lingers not far behind him. Harry can hear them laughing and the soft, sloppy thud of their shoes on the tiled floor.

“Lou,” Zayn says. “Harry!”

Louis steps out of the doorway. “What’s up?”

“Your friend got sick all over some lady’s shoes,” Zayn says, chuckling. He looks at Louis and then Harry again. “Shit. Did I interrupt?” His words slur. “Were you headed into his room?”

Louis curls his arm around Zayn’s shoulder. “What shit are you talking, mate?” He starts to lead him away and casts a glance at Harry. “G’night.”

Harry nods, turning to face his room door, jamming the key card into the slot. The stragglers come trickling by. Harry happens to glance over his shoulder just as he gets the door open and makes eye contact with Rachel. She doesn’t look very drunk.

With a small smile, he slips into his room and shuts the door behind him.

†

Some beefy cameraman stands in the middle of Harry’s flower shop like the floor is made of glass. Harry watches him tiptoeing around, twisting this way and that to ensure he’s not about to knock some vase from a shelf. It’s incredibly entertaining.

“Okay, Mr Styles—” A woman dressed in a yellow cardigan and jeans lifts a microphone from her thigh. He can’t remember her name. Sadly, she’s told him twice already.

“Harry,” he interrupts her. “Please.”

She smiles. “Harry, we’re going to begin now, if that’s alright.”

“Sure.”

The woman looks to the cameraman standing across from her and just to Harry’s left. She positions the microphone in front of her lipsticked mouth. “I’m Marlene Asher with Sky Arts. Today we’re chatting with Mr Harry Styles, who is father to up-and-coming star, Andy Styles of the new girl band, The Wonderlands. As many of you know, the band is one of Louis Tomlinson, the former One Direction star’s, latest ventures. Harry is a florist here in Northampton. We’re here in his shop with him now. So, Harry, things are going quite well for the girls, wouldn’t you say?”

He forgets she’s talking to him, distracted by the man brushing a vase full of lavender. He blinks and meets Marlene’s big blue eyes. “Yes,” he says. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat the question?”

“Of course. We aren’t filming live so don’t worry. I asked if you think things are going quite well for the girls so far?”

“Oh. Yeah, absolutely. I’d say it’s much better than I thought it’d be. They sound great together, thanks to Louis and his team, really.”

“Did you worry they wouldn’t be very good?”

“Not exactly. Just when they first started out, obviously there was some tension, I suppose.” He quiets. He’s not entirely sure if he’s meant to say that. Last night, in an email, some assistant sent over a list of ‘safe and unsafe’ topics. He was a little high with Liam and Niall. He thinks he might have read the ‘safe’ as ‘unsafe’ and vice versa.

“The first time I heard them play together, they were still getting used to being in a band,” Harry explains. “I’m sure they still are — getting used to each other — but they sound amazing now.”

“Do you have a favourite member yet?” Marlene asks with a coy upward shrug of her brows.

Harry laughs. “I do. I quite like the curly-haired one who sings.”

“They all sing, don’t they?”

Harry makes this funny face and then worries it’ll appear smug. “I think they’re all great honestly,” he says. He also thinks he’s quite ready to be finished with this interview. Cameraman #2 has nice biceps, yes, but if he knocks over the lavender, all bets are off.

“How long have you known Andy was destined to be a star?”

“Since she was born,” Harry says easily. Marlene looks intrigued. “Her mum died when she was still a baby but I think she saw this coming. She wanted her to be a legendary female rock guitarist. There’s not enough of those, you know?”

“Do you see her being that legendary guitarist in a girl band?”

“I see her being that no matter what. But I also think that Louis has created a good atmosphere that allows her to really shine.”

“Have you had much opportunity to work closely with Louis Tomlinson?”

Harry nearly laughs, thinking of Glasgow. His arse to Louis’ crotch. Very close, indeed. “Mhm,” Harry hums. “And Andy has nothing but great things to say of him.”

The cameraman signals and Marlene lowers her microphone. “Alright. We’re going to proceed to the tour portion. We’d like you to just take us for a stroll around your shop and just up the street. Then we’ll get a few shots of you working. Sounds good?”

“Sounds great,” he says, standing.

†

“Your interview was terrible,” Andy says, tossing her duffle into the boot. She climbs into the passenger seat and buckles in.

“I thought I did well,” Harry argues.

“Did you even read the email? You mentioned _tension_ in the band? That’s like at the top of the list of things not to mention.”

Harry slides his sunglasses onto his face, pulling away from the kerb. “Is it not obvious that a new band will have some tension?”

“Sure it is. But you don’t talk about it, not when we’re _still_ a new band. Jesus, Dad.” Andy drops her head to the headrest and pulls her sunglasses down over her eyes.

Harry chews his lip. “Well, did you hear the part where I mentioned your mum?”

Andy looks at him. “No,” she says, frowning. “They must’ve cut it. They jammed your interview together with the other parents. Didn’t you watch it?”

“I didn’t realise it was coming on so soon,” Harry says. “Thought they’d save it for during Christmas.”

“Came on yesterday and it was awful. Luckily, I don’t think many people saw it. Nan even missed it. Pod said he saw it though.”

“Did he?” Harry asks. It’s been too long since he’s seen or even heard from Cassie’s step-father. They try to visit every now and then, but it’s harder with Andy in London. There’s too little time to see everyone. “We’ll have to visit him before you go travelling the world.”

“We should,” Andy agrees.

They quiet to sing along to the radio. Andy dozes off after only thirty minutes. He pulls off for petrol and grabs the plaid blanket from the boot and tosses it across her body. He drives for another hour before she wakes, face wrinkled.

“I’m hungry,” she announces.

“There’s that place coming up. With the waffles? Or we could wait until we get to the house.”

“No, let’s stop, please?”

It takes another ten minutes before they reach the spot. They shuffle into the old-fashioned little building. The lights overhead cast the booths in a gray, yellowish light but it’s oddly cosy. And yet another relic from his days with Cassie too. Neverending waffles and classic music from dreary overhead speakers.

Andy, like her mum, orders waffles.

Harry nudges her ankle with his own. “I’m sorry if I caused trouble with the interview,” he says, stirring his tea slowly.

“You didn’t really. It’s not even your fault. Everything with the media is just tricky. So easy to say the wrong thing,” Andy says, lifting the maple syrup. He watches her hand rotating repeatedly, the poor waffles drowning. He nearly tells her to stop. “You know, they’ve got us doing media training?”

Harry takes a sip of his tea. “What’s that like?”

“Just weird. A lot of smoke and mirrors.” She finally stops with the syrup.

Harry lifts his sloppy burger and takes a bite. They eat in silence and deep thought.

“Can I ask you something?”

He wipes his hands with a paper napkin. “Of course.”

“Is there something going on between you and Louis?”

He stares at her, tongue swiping his top lip where it seems sweat has formed instantly. He reaches for his tea. “Why?” And then he has a sip.

“Rose made this comment about you two,” Andy says. “About Louis being my new stepdad. She was tipsy but she still said it.”

“Why do you think she would say that?”

“I don’t know. Could you answer my question?”

Harry sighs. “We’re just friends.”

Technically, true.

“He’s still off-limits,” Andy says.

“I’m still not chasing him.”

Also, true. He’s not chasing anyone. Rather he and Louis are walking alongside each other. No need for a chase when they both know where they’re headed.

“I’m just saying. Things with the band aren’t perfect. Rose pretends to like me but she doesn’t. Kendra is close with Rose but she’s cool with me. Mercy’s neutral, I guess. Things are tricky, just like the media. Everything is so bloody tricky. We play really well together thanks to Louis and the voice coach and all that. But there’s still this tension. Sometimes I feel like Rose wants me to feel isolated.”

Again, he finds himself in a conundrum. He doesn’t want to overstep but what else is he supposed to do when his daughter’s being bullied by someone she lives with? “I didn’t know things were still that bad. Maybe I could speak with Rachel? Or even Louis?”

“No, please don’t. Honestly, it comes and goes. Sometimes things are fine and then sometimes it’s like Glasgow. That extra riff? _I_ was supposed to play that. It’s how we rehearsed it. She’s just jealous all the time. She feels like I’m getting an unfair amount of attention. Louis likes a lot of my songs. He told me he wants to put them on the album. I overheard Rose saying that he only liked one of hers. I almost feel bad, even if it’s not my fault. And I know she’ll think he’s playing favourites again. So, you know, it’d be much worse if she thought you two were dating.”

“But why would she think we were dating at all?”

“Kendra told me that Rose told her that Rachel thought you two were getting close in Glasgow.”

Harry rubs his temples. “This is too much for me. Like an episode of the Kardashians.”

“I hate it too,” Andy says. “But it’s apparently something that comes with the fame. Drama and deception and secrets. I don’t get it at all. Why people can’t just make music without all that stuff.”

The word ‘deception’ sticks to him like maple syrup. He lowers his gaze. “You just have to be the one that does things differently. Don’t get involved if you can manage it.”

Andy frowns. “I’m trying.”

In his head, Harry thinks _‘me too’_.

“That’s the best you can do then,” he says. “Did Mercy tell you anything else about Rachel?”

Andy stuffs a forkful of waffles into her mouth and says, “No?”

Harry cringes at the bit of food that falls from her mouth. He tosses a napkin at her, which she laughs about and accepts gratefully.

“She’s going to LA with Rose apparently,” he says.

Balling the napkin up slowly, Andy glances at him.

“Did you know that?” Harry asks.

“I didn’t,” Andy says quietly, looking down at her plate. “I figured everyone was going on their own.”

Tentatively, Harry says, “Maybe some of the girls, like Rose for example, want someone to be there with them? Maybe since it’s their first time travelling alone? There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Andy glances at him. “Maybe.”

Harry lifts his brows. “It’s alright to be scared.”

“For them, yeah. But I’m the youngest. It’s me they’ll _expect_ to be scared.”

“What does that matter, though, if they’re scared too?”

“You don’t understand. It’s not just that. You’ll worry too much if you think I’m scared all the time. You’ll mope.”

“I don’t mope.”

“Yes, you do,” Andy says with a scoff. “You do it _all_ the time. I bet you’ve just been sitting around at home starkers and staring at the wall.”

“There’s absolutely nothing mopey about sitting around starkers,” he says dismissively. “Anyway, that’s off topic. Forget about me. I’m more concerned with you isolating yourself and trying to be tougher and stronger than you are. You’re only human, Bee.”

Andy huffs an exasperated breath and puts her head in her hands, light reflecting on her black glitter nail varnish. “I can’t bring you everywhere with me,” she mumbles. “Even if I want to.”

“I don’t expect you to,” Harry says quietly. He sits forward and speaks softly. “But the very first time? The second? I’d be there if you needed me to be. I _want_ to be there.”

Andy looks at him with big, doe-like green eyes. “I know that.”

“Don’t shut me out because you feel like you’ve got something to prove.”

“I’m not.”

Harry sets a hand on her forearm. “You don’t have to do anything alone. That’s why I’m here.”

“That’s not true,” Andy says. “Eventually I’ll have to.”

He knows that. He thinks about that often. But he hasn’t come to terms with it yet and isn’t ready to. “Well, you don’t have to start right now.”

Andy’s smile is small and sceptical but it counts. He gives her forearm one last squeeze and releases her. “Let’s hurry and get back on the road, yeah?”

†

Warm fingers slide through the hair at his temple. The smell of cinnamon and some floral perfume teases his nostrils. He turns, eyes opening, a smile gracing his face.

“Good morning, love,” his mum says.

“Happy Christmas,” Harry replies, voice rough with lingering sleep.

“Happy Christmas,” she says. “The kids are up. I let you sleep for as long as I could but breakfast is ready.”

He sits upright, stretching his back. “Should have woken me. I would have helped you.”

“Your dad helped,” his mum says, patting his shoulder. “Get dressed and come down.”

She leaves him to it. Harry flops down on the mattress again like a sardine, turning toward the frost covered window. One of the cats creeps into his peripheral. He smiles, setting his hand atop its head. He hears the thud of feet approaching fast, barely enough time to brace himself before Andy throws herself onto the bed. Terrified, the cat takes off, and Andy starts bouncing around.

“Happy Christmas!” she says, drumming her hands on his back. She tosses his hair about his head. The bed whines as she tosses herself around too.

“We’ve had a talk about drugs, haven’t we?” Harry mumbles.

She laughs manically in reply and he wonders about the stash of weed Gemma used to keep in a hat box beneath her bed.

Andy collapses sideways on the bed, curly hair thrown out around her head like a crown. “The only drugs I’m on are Nan’s biscuits.”

“For breakfast?” Harry gasps.

Andy grins, pressing her finger to her mouth. “Shh.”

“You know…” Harry begins gravely. “It’s not too late for Saint Nick to turn his sleigh around.”

“What am I, five?”

Harry chuckles, reaching out to poke her dimpled cheek. “Happy Christmas, love.”

She shuffles close and cuddles up beside him, arm thrown around his waist. He’s in danger of falling asleep again, warm as he is, comfortable and at peace.

“Look at this,” Gemma calls from the doorway. Harry can’t turn and look at her but he hears her feet on the hardwood floors, drawing close. Her weight is suddenly atop him, smothering him and Andy both. They groan like the old bed beneath them.

“I love a Christmas morning cuddle,” Gemma says, her arms squeezing them.

“I don’t anymore,” Andy grumbles.

Gemma presses a frenzy of kisses to their cheeks and then slaps their bums. “Come down and eat.”

His mum has the record player going. After he cleans himself up and pulls on a jumper, he enters the kitchen to the sounds of ‘Merry Christmas Everyone’ by Shakin’ Stevens. He hugs his dad who’s standing before a tray of mince pies. He greets Alfie holding a Christmas biscuit in his tiny hand. His sister hands him a mug of mulled wine and he sits down at the table beside Andy, who’s got a sausage link hanging from her mouth.

The house smells of spice and firewood. One of the cats brushes across his ankle beneath the table. The record player arm slides to the next track: All I Want For Christmas Is You. His mum goes wild for this song every time. She starts moving her shoulders and hips in her seat and they laugh. The table is full and soon enough their stomachs are too.

Later, Cassie’s half-sister comes by with a gift for Andy. She and her husband stay for tea but have to be on the road again soon. The rest of his family trickles in just after noon, bringing the cold with them and arms full of wrapped dishes and gifts.

Their Christmas meal is complete with a golden turkey, roast potatoes, red currant sauce, and sprouts. His dad brings out the pies. His aunt has sausage rolls. There’s a chocolate yule log and fruit cake for dessert, along with more mulled wine.

They gather around his mum’s new Christmas tree. Harry borrows his dad’s camera to document what he can. He has pictures of Andy from every Christmas since she was a baby, yet another promise he feels he’s upholding to Cassie.

 _“I want photo albums full of pictures from every stage of her life,”_ she’d said. _“I want pictures after she loses every tooth. After she plays every song. Every birthday. Every Christmas.”_

Andy holds up a thick black knit jumper her grandmum made for her and smiles for Harry. And for Cassie too. The shutter sounds.

“Who’s that one from?” Harry asks after a sip of his mulled wine.

Andy’s brows furrow, inspecting the present. “Hm. I don’t know. Says _Dad_?” She looks at Gemma. “Do we know a Dad? Strange name.”

That gets the room laughing like she aimed. Comedy is a clear second calling for her. Harry rolls his eyes. “Just open the present.”

“I am, I am,” she says, pulling the newspaper he wrapped it in away in long sheets. She pulls and pulls, shaking her head at his unnecessary use of paper. Then finally, she has it free: a handmade vinyl cover, painted with the words “White Eskimo.”

“ _No_ ,” she gasps. “Is this—?”

Harry smiles when she looks at him.

“Is my mum on this? She’s singing?” Andy asks, her eyes wide.

“She is,” Harry says, nodding.

“And your dad,” Gemma says, setting a hand on his shoulder.

“And me,” Harry echoes. “Took me a while to find all the recordings. Soon enough you’ll have some albums of your own. Might be nice to have your mum’s too.”

Andy slides the vinyl free carefully. Her thick lashes flutter against her pinked cheeks. Her mouth twists the way it does when she’s trying not to cry. “This is really great,” she says quietly. “I’ve only ever heard one song.”

“Well, there’s about fifteen on there,” Harry says.

Her mouth and brows twitch. She looks at him. “Thank you,” she says. The Christmas tree lights shine on the moisture collecting in her eyes. She stands and flops down on the couch beside him, throwing her arm around his waist. She presses a kiss to his cheek and rests her head against his shoulder. “Someone else open a present,” she mumbles.

Gemma laughs. “Okay, mum, that big box there is for you.”

While they’re distracted, Andy says to him again, “Thank you.” Her face is turned away from the rest of the room but he hears her quiet sniffle.

“You’re welcome,” Harry says softly. “Sorry it’s taken me so long to get them all together for you.”

“No, this is great timing,” she says. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Harry,” Gemma says, shoving a gift bag and a small box at him. “One is from me. One is from Andy. Open mine first. Andy’s is probably all sentimental and soppy.”

Andy shoots her a glare, untangling herself. “Mine is the box.”

So Harry sticks his arm into the gift bag and pulls a soft leather jacket from inside. “ _Seriously_?” He looks at Gemma, unfolding the jacket. “Oh my God.”

“We got it second-hand but it’s by some fancy designer and I know you outgrew that one you loved wearing when you were younger.”

Harry smiles. “This is incredible. I love it.”

“There’s something else,” Gemma tells him.

He shakes his head, reaching into the bag again. Literally, all he got for her was a bottle of perfume.

“That’s from all of us really,” she adds.

He knows what it is once he touches it. He feels the cool metal body and the oblong shape of the lens. When he withdraws his arm from the bag, he’s holding an old Leica. He catches himself before he swears aloud, turning the camera slowly in his hands. He can’t think about how much it cost. He knows only that it was expensive and if he allows himself, he’ll feel awful they spent so much on him.

He releases an overwhelmed breath. “This is amazing. Thank you,” he says, pressing a kiss to his mum’s cheek. He tosses Andy’s curls around her head and squeezes Gemma’s shoulder. “I love it so much.”

Peeling his eyes away from the camera, he lifts the box. “Are these tickets to Bora Bora?”

Andy snorts. “Not just yet.”

“Shame. I had my yellow polka-dot bikini all ready.” He unwraps the box and pops it open. The Christmas tree lights turn from white to multi-color. Their shift is captured by the gleaming face of the watch tucked in Andy’s gift box. Harry pulls it free, shooting her a smile. “I needed a new watch.”

“I know,” she says. “Look at the back.”

He takes another second to admire the face first, rimmed with gold, and the dark leather straps. He turns to the polished silver back with details on the watch’s movement — and an inscription.

He laughs. “Says ‘Buzz on.’”

Their family cooes and awes.

“Isn’t that sweet,” his mum says beside him, patting his knee.

Andy smiles. “You like it?”

“I _love_ it,” Harry says and to prove it, he straps the watch on and shows it off. “I think it looks lovely.”

“Very smart,” his mum agrees.

“And we match now,” Andy says.

Speechless again, Harry pulls her against his chest and squeezes her.

“Told you. Absolute sops, both of them,” Gemma says. “Okay, Uncle Frank. This one here, the purple bag— that’s for you. And Mum, I think you’ve got one more from Harry.”

Later, he brings his guitar down to strum soft carols at his mum’s request while his family bundles up around him with warm mugs in their hands. The fire winds down. The old year winds down and softly, they sing in the new.

†

**JANUARY 2017**

It’s trying very hard to snow in London. The wet, slush falling on the windscreen is actually quite sad though expected. Andy turns the radio station and Harry smiles in approval at the sound of Black Sabbath.

“Is she not answering?” he asks.

“I’ve tried six times,” Andy says regrettably, dropping her phone into her lap.

Harry sighs. “This weather is awful. We should head home.”

“It’s so early. Maybe we can go visit Troye? He’d want the cake.”

Harry considers it. He hasn’t seen Troye since before Christmas. But he’s still worried about Simone. She’s a longtime friend of his family and a former employee at the flower shop back when his grandmum owned it. It’s weird for her not to answer her phone. She’s as wild-spirited as ever but older now and slowing down each time he sees her. “Try ringing her again,” he says. “Then Troye.”

Andy does as told. Harry pulls into a petrol station, pulling his hood up over his head. He fills up his tank quickly, bouncing on his toes and hugging himself tightly to stay warm. He ducks back into the car and blows warm air into his palms. “What have you got?”

“No answer from Simone and Troye says he’s in France?”

“What the hell is he doing in France?” Harry rests his head back and groans. “I can’t believe we drove all this way and have no one to give this cake.”

“I know and it was our best one.”

It’s a tradition for them, baking cakes with his mum on New Years. There’s always one for them to take home and eat themselves, and one for Simone.

Harry starts the engine. “You could always take it back to share with the girls next week.”

“Oh!” Andy exclaims. “We should give it to Louis!”

He glances at her. “Who?” Another Louis, she must mean. Not Louis Tomlinson.

She gives him a look. “ _Louis_. He lives around here. Like two minutes that way,” she says, pointing. “It’d be a nice present for his birthday too.”

Harry pulls onto the road. “No, that’s just weird. You can’t just drop in on someone with a cake. It’s not the 19th century.”

“I’m telling you he’d love it.”

Harry glares determinedly out the windshield. “How do you even know where he lives?”

“Me and the girls have been before,” Andy says. “He made pizza.”

Harry’s brow creases with increasing confusion and he shakes his head for what feels like the fiftieth time. “No, this is a terrible idea. You don’t even know if he’s busy.”

“I’ll text him and see.”

Harry can’t take his eyes off the road to actually watch her texting him but he almost wouldn’t believe it. Is it strange that they’re on a texting basis or is he just tired?

“Make the next turn here,” Andy says. Noting his scepticism, she adds, “Seriously. It’ll be cool.”

Regrettably, Harry makes the turn, fully disappointed in himself for it afterwards. He didn’t come prepared to see Louis, mentally or physically. In fact, this is the very thing he’s tried not to prepare himself for. He feels terrible for not wishing him a Happy Birthday or a Happy Christmas. He avoided Twitter so he wouldn't have the chance. But he’d done it all for the sake of resistance and self-control.

Louis’ house appears before he's ready. Andy tells him to park and he looks at the sprawling brick structure beside them and asks, “Seriously?”

“Isn’t it great?”

He makes a small noncommittal sound. It’s intimidating, is what it is. It’s massive and brightly lit and somewhere inside sits Louis Tomlinson, once again and always like a king.

Andy’s phone starts ringing and Harry hopes with every fibre of his being that it’s Simone.

“Hi, Simone,” Andy says.

Harry exhales a breath of relief, reaching for the gear lever.

“ _Vegas_?” Andy’s brows shoot up towards her hairline. She looks at Harry with widening eyes. “That’s incredible. Are you having a nice time?”

Harry kills the engine and rests his head to the window pane with a heavy sigh.

“We just had a Christmas cake we wanted to bring for you. Don’t worry about it. I’ll let him know.”

Harry listens to her end the call with a bright ‘have fun’ and then she turns to him, “Simone says thanks for thinking of her and sorry she can’t take the cake. Also, Louis replied and said he’s not busy.”

She grins from ear-to-ear, tugging her hat on.

Harry drags his hands down his face. “This is awful. He’s going to think we’re the strangest people.”

“You can stay in here if you want.”

Harry glares. “That would be rude.”

“Then come on,” Andy says, pulling on her mittens. She grabs the brown cake box from the backseat and climbs out. Harry follows her to the gate surrounding Louis’ home and lingers a step behind her while she presses a button on the keypad.

“Hello?”

Harry covers his face with his hand when he hears him. He’s never been entrapped in a worse plan than this one. After Glasgow, this will only come off as a scheme from the highest order of desperation. He’s trying to turn things around now. He doesn’t need more reasons to lie to Andy and yet, every encounter with this man seems like a delay to the inevitable moment when they collide.

“Hi, Louis,” Andy says happily. “It's Andy. I’m here with my dad and we’ve brought a present for you.”

Louis’ soft laughter drifts through the speaker, a sharp contrast to the bitter gale that passes by. “Really?” he says. “Come on in then.”

The gate buzzes and begins to slide open. Harry creeps behind her, hands jammed in his pockets. As they approach the front door, it opens, throwing light from the home onto the pavement. Louis is standing there, dressed in slim-fitting joggers and a loose grey jumper. He’s unshaven and unfairly handsome. Harry stays where he is a few steps behind Andy but smiles.

“This is a nice surprise,” Louis says. His eyes linger on Harry and then fall to Andy. “Is that my present?”

“Yes,” Andy says, lifting the box. “Truthfully, we were in the area and we had this extra cake and we thought it’d be nice to just drop it here, as a late birthday present.”

“That’s really kind of you,” Louis says, taking the box. He smiles at it and then at them. “Come inside. It’s frigid out there.”

Harry nearly interrupts with a protest but he says nothing until he steps inside. Even then, he chooses: “Lovely home.”

“Thank you,” Louis says. “Happy New Year, by the way.”

“Same to you,” Andy says. “We weren’t planning to stay long.”

“Right.” Louis nods. “The weather is awful. Wouldn't want you to get stuck in it.”

Harry meets his gaze again and then glances down the hallway, which is when someone steps into view there, a woman with long brown hair and a smile. She heads towards them. “Hello.”

“Hi,” Harry says. He looks at Louis. “I’m sorry. Andy said you weren’t busy.”

“No, I’m not,” Louis says quickly. “Just my sister.”

The woman gives Louis a look. “I’m Felicite,” she says pointedly, extending her hand for Harry to shake. “Please call me Fizzy.” She shoots Andy a smile. “And I know _you_.”

Andy smiles. "Good to see you again."

“They dropped off a cake,” Louis tells his sister.

Fizzy lifts her brows. “How nice. Two of our other sisters are here as well. They’ll be happy enough to hear that.”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m sorry we dropped in like this while you’re with your family,” he says, shooting Andy a look.

Fizzy snorts unashamedly. “Please don’t be. Tomorrow, my sisters are visiting schools they’d like to attend this autumn. So we drove up here just to spend the night. Nothing special. We’ve been just sitting here actually, trying to figure out something for dinner.”

“You should have some of Louis’ pizza,” Andy says. “It’s incredible.”

Fizzy looks at her brother, brows furrowed. “Louis’ pizza?” she says with a growing smile. “Incredible?”

Louis laughs, rubbing the space between his brows. “Confession time,” he announces. “I bought that pizza from ASDA. You girls just assumed I made it from scratch.”

Andy claps a hand over her mouth.

“I know. Very sorry to disappoint,” Louis says. “I don’t think I’ve got any left either.”

“I could help with that.”

Harry shrugs once the words have left him. They all look at him.

“Pizza is our speciality, right, Bee?” he says.

“ _Your_ speciality,” Andy says. “Makes a ridiculously good pizza, my dad.”

“Now I’m curious,” Louis says.

“And me,” Fizzy says. “You both should stay and have pizza with us then.”

Harry glances at Andy who lifts her brows and smiles. Again, Harry shrugs. “I’d be happy to help,” he says, forgetting the storm and the long drive home.

“I’ll help too,” Louis says.

Fizzy looks at Andy. “I’ll introduce you to my sisters," she says, leading her towards the stairs. "They’re about your age.”

“Kitchen’s this way,” Louis says with a nod. He leads him there, while Harry pulls off his coat. Louis exchanges the coat for the cake box and hangs it in the cupboard on their way.

“I’m sorry again. I feel weird about this, just popping in on you with cake,” Harry mumbles.

Louis takes the cake box from him. “I meant it when I said it’s a nice surprise. I’m happy to see you. And Andy. What kind of cake is it?”

“Just a Christmas cake,” Harry says, sliding his hands into his back pockets. He glances around the kitchen. “This is all really nice. Very spacious.”

“Maybe too spacious,” Louis says. “So where do we start?”

“Have you got flour, eggs, salt—?”

As he speaks, Louis starts moving about the kitchen, pulling things down from cupboards and spreads them out from the worktop. When he opens one, Harry catches sight of a big yellow mixing bowl and so he goes back for it and pulls it down. Louis smiles, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows. “Good?”

Harry taps his hand once on the bottom of the bowl. “Think we’re good.”

He sets the bowl down and rolls the sleeves of his plaid shirt up. He starts to wash his hands in the sink and Louis joins him. The basin is big enough for them both but their bodies are close. Harry keeps his eyes down.

“Alright,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Get ready to be amazed.”

“So that's music, flowers, biscuits, pizza…” Louis says, ticking points off on his fingers. “What aren't you good at?”

“You forgot shots,” Harry says. “Should be in there somewhere.”

“Of course. And dancing.”

Harry focuses on measuring ingredients, which is safest. But Louis’ arms are in his peripheral and in his head, he thinks of them easing across his waist, all those tattoos turned technicolour in an array of spotlights. “There are a lot of things I'm not good at.”

“Name one.”

Harry tries. He’s bad at a lot of things. The ones that come to mind aren’t for sharing. “Convincing my kid it's rude to drop in on people?”

“That would be because you're wrong.”

Harry smiles. “Then you're right. Seems I'm good at everything.”

He glances at him and finds him smiling broadly, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled. Something brushes his ankle and he’d be alarmed except that he’s accustomed to the feeling. He looks down, grinning. “You have a cat!”

“I do. You’re not allergic, are you?”

“No, I love cats,” Harry says, kneeling. The orange tabby hurries off before he can pet her. “Even if they don't always love me.”

Louis laughs. “She’ll warm up to you.”

It's weird the way he says it, as if Harry will have time for his cat to warm up to him. He can’t imagine when.

“What's her name?”

“Pepper.”

“I like it,” Harry says, nodding. “Andy begged me for a cat for years. But the place was hardly big enough for the two of us.” He returns to the mixing bowl and slides his hands back into the gooey dough.

“You have to give me something to do,” Louis says. “I’ll feel weird if I just stand here watching you.”

Harry laughs. “You can take the dough,” he says, sliding the bowl over to him. “Have you got mushrooms? Pepperoni?”

“I’ve got mushrooms, yeah. There’s parma ham in there somewhere, if that works instead. And some green peppers.”

“Perfect,” Harry says. He reaches the big industrial fridge and strokes the stainless steel door for a moment in admiration. “Have you lived here a while?”

“About five years,” Louis explains. “Before then, I was travelling a lot, not really looking for some place to settle down.”

Harry watches his nimble hands work the dough over. Louis presses down into it like a masseuse on weary muscles. “And you are now?” Harry asks.

“I like to think so,” Louis says, glancing his way. “I’m a hopeful cynic.”

Harry’s eyes trail across his face and then back to the crisp pepper in his hand. He draws one of the wood-handled knives from a block by the sink. “Where did you travel to back then?”

“LA, Paris, New York. Stockholm for a bit. Dublin. Sydney. Bariloche and Pinamar in Argentina. If you name it, I was probably there. Couldn’t get me to stay anywhere for very long.”

“Why should you?” Harry says. His knife thuds rhythmically on the chopping board, green slivers of pepper falling like dominoes away from the blade. “If you can travel, you should. I’d love to do that myself. Just take off somewhere and travel around. I wouldn't come home for months.”

“Couldn’t you?”

“I’d rather be around for Andy right now.” He feels Louis’ gaze on him but his own eyes are on the mound of pepper he slides into a bowl.

“I’m doing this right, yeah?” Louis asks.

Harry steps away from his own work and peeks over Louis’ shoulder. “Looks good. You can stop now actually.” He doesn’t realise how close he is until Louis looks at him. He steps away.

“I’m going to be in LA next week,” Louis says after a moment. “Then New York. Then back to LA. Won’t be in London again for a month.”

“You’ll miss my birthday then.” Harry pauses on the mushroom he’s in the midst of dissecting. Too shameless? He adds, “And Andy’s.” Satisfied, he chops the mushroom.

“I’ll have to find some way to make it up to you.”

“I’d say a simple birthday call would be fine but I don’t even have your number,” Harry says, shrugging. “Imagine how surprised I was to find you and Andy are on a texting basis.”

“Not jealous, are you?”

Harry answers him with a roll of his eyes. Perhaps he is.

“Where’s your phone?” Louis asks, wiping his hands off on a towel.

Harry pulls his mobile from his back pocket. Louis holds his hand out and Harry places it in the centre of his palm.

After a few quick taps of his thumb, Louis says, “I messaged myself so I have yours.”

“No more Twitter conversations, then?” Harry asks, though they’ve only had one previously.

Louis’ brows crease. “You want it all, don’t you?”

“Who doesn’t?” Harry accepts his phone and tucks it away. “Have you got a rolling pin?”

Louis casts a glance around his kitchen. All that space and no sign of one. “I’m going to say no.”

“Alright then,” Harry says. “We’ll use our fingers.”

“Interesting,” Louis says, smiling boyishly.

Harry looks at him. “Seriously?”

“You said it, not me.”

“You’re literally five.” Harry laughs and nudges him out of the way, their shoulders and hips colliding. Their arms brush and the hairs on his skin rise like fallen leaves caught in a gale. He’s the one who feels too young in that moment, riddled by an incurable bout of whimsical, childish feeling for the man beside him.

“Dad.”

“Yes?” Harry lifts his head and there’s Andy. Beside her are two other girls and Felicite, all appearing out of nowhere. “Hello.”

“Harry,” Felicite says. “These are my sisters, Phoebe and Daisy”

Harry lifts his hand and waves. “Lovely to meet you.”

The girls wave back.

“The storm’s let up a bit and the girls want Starbucks,” Felicite says, her hands on one of her sister’s shoulders. “Should be back before you’re finished, yeah?”

“I think so,” Louis says.

Andy looks at Harry. “Can I go?”

She’s been out of the house for long enough now that the question stumps him. She stares at him when he doesn’t answer straight away, eyes narrowed with confusion.

“Oh. Of course,” Harry says, waving her off. “Just wear your hat.”

With one last look of perplexity, she follows the girls to the front door. Harry finishes chopping a mushroom, listening to them in the hall, pulling on their shoes and coats. In the next minute, the front door shuts behind them. He and Louis are alone.

“Where were we?” Louis asks. “Fingers, right?”

Harry covers his face with his hand, muffling his laughter. “Yes,” he says with a sigh. “Fingers.”

“Sounds great.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Harry says, wiping his hands with a dishcloth. “We need a pizza pan.”

Louis snaps. “I do have one of _those_.”

They get to work laying the dough out on the pan and spreading it evenly. It’s slow work without a rolling pin. If Harry could, he’d toss the dough like a master chef. But a master chef, he is not. The time it takes them allows them a full conversation. About pizza, for a while, but mostly, about Louis’ travels when he was much younger and still in One Direction. Perhaps he doesn’t intend for this, but it calms Harry, who didn’t realise until this moment how much the thought of Andy travelling unnerved him. Hearing how much Louis learned while he was away. How much he grew.

“That’s what I want for her,” Harry says. “The things you experienced, how they changed you for the better, I want that for her too.”

Louis’ mouth forms a tight line. After a moment, he says, “Not in the same way. I dealt with things that I wouldn’t want another artist to deal with. But so long as she works with me, Andy won’t have to.”

It’s jarring to see the glimmer of discomfort in Louis’ expression. It might be the first sign of vulnerability Harry's witnessed from him. He doesn’t prod. In fact, after that, they keep their conversation solely on pizza.

They coat the dough with sauce and freshly shredded cheese. They layer toppings quickly and somewhat sloppily. Harry might be more particular about it if Louis’ stomach doesn’t rumble halfway through.

“Didn’t have much for lunch,” he confesses, setting a hand on his stomach.

Harry takes the leftover half of green pepper and cuts a wedge from it. He hands it to him. “It’ll help some. I promise.”

Louis looks visibly unconvinced but accepts the pepper. “Don’t really eat them like this.” He takes a bite.

“It’s good, though, isn’t it?” Harry eats a slice of pepper himself.

“Could use some dip,” Louis says. “But it’ll do.”

Harry steps away to preheat the oven. Louis has a round-bellied wine bottle out from the cooler by the time he’s finished. Two clinking glasses come next. Harry looks at him, expressionless.

“Just one glass,” Louis says with a laugh. “I promise.”

Like a canon, the cork pops free. Harry thinks of himself at the forefront of some invisible battle line. One glass of sparkling wine can’t get him into much trouble. He tells himself so. Then Louis hands the glass to him and lifts his own.

They toast. “To a happy New Year,” Louis says.

“To a Happy New Year,” Harry repeats, bringing the glass to his mouth.

“What did you do to celebrate?”

Harry takes another longer sip of his wine. “This is really good,” he says. Louis smiles. Harry sets his glass down. “Every year, me and Andy go to my parents for Christmas and stay until New Years. They have more room for decorations and all that. It was nice. Watched some fireworks on TV. Lit some sparklers in the garden.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“It was. What about you?”

“I was in New York. Dr. Dre hosted this party. I took Zayn with me. It was alright, I guess. Probably nothing like time with your family.”

“I’m sure it could be. I bet those big industry get-togethers can be fun if you have the right person with you. Someone who’ll dance with you to all the songs. Someone you actually _want_ to kiss at midnight.”

He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He has more of his wine.

“You’re saying I should have brought you,” Louis says.

Harry coughs, placing the glass down. He laughs. “No?” he says slowly, incredulously. “You’re saying you wanted to kiss me on New Year’s?”

Louis’ gaze is steady. “I wanted to kiss you in Glasgow.”

No laughter this time. No response. They stare at each other. Harry traces the lines of Louis’ mouth with his eyes. He tries to speak but the words fall dead on his tongue. He swallows, licks his lips, tries again.

Then, “I wanted to kiss you too.”

Once he’s said it though, he doesn’t know what else there is. Of course, Louis does.

“I want to kiss you right now.”

Harry pushes both hands through his hair. “I think I should put the pizza in the oven.”

So he turns away to do so, sliding the pan into the oven. When he turns back, Louis is simply looking at him and then he sets his wine glass down on the worktop and steps closer.

Harry takes a step back, spreading his hands out on the worktop behind himself, eyes on Louis’ mouth and the narrowing space between their feet. He wants to reach for him and pull him in, but he also wants to stay right where he is. It’s unpresumptuous here. He can’t be the one to make the first move, or even the second.

One of Louis’ hands comes to rest on the worktop, his pinky brushing Harry’s thumb. Harry’s heartbeat is loud enough to hear for miles. Maybe it vibrates so forcefully in his chest, Louis can feel it shaking the tiles beneath them.

“I think I’m going to kiss you now.”

Harry breathes a quiet, machine-gun laugh. “You think?”

“Pretty sure that’s where this is going,” Louis says. “Has been going.”

Harry looks down on himself. “I think I’m covered in flour and cheese.”

Louis lifts his hands and slides them over Harry’s hips. His palms are warm and firm, enough that they make Harry feel like the pizza dough, being kneaded until it’s pliant and ready. He’s never been more ready. “I think you’re gorgeous,” Louis murmurs, tilting his head, mouths drawing close.

Harry takes one final hitch of breath before Louis kisses him, slowly with lips that move like honey. He shouldn’t be surprised that he kisses this way. Everything about him from the moment they met has been measured, careful, and yet, flawlessly executed. He could take Harry apart like this, with just his molasses mouth and steady hands.

But Harry cradles Louis’ jaw in his palms and returns the kiss with an edge of desperation he might be embarrassed about under different circumstances. He’s done with being careful. He wants to be taken apart, yes, but he wants it wild. He wants chaos.

He sinks his teeth into Louis’ bottom lip, causing Louis’ brow to furrow and his mouth to issue a hiss of complaint. He looks at Harry, running his tongue over his own lip, perhaps tasting blood. Harry thinks to apologise but he’s halted by another kiss, by Louis’ tongue entering his mouth, by his hands slipping downward and sliding beneath his shirt. It seems to last forever but only seconds pass before they part for a breath.

“Should’ve known…” Louis begins.

Harry’s eyes open lazily. “Known what?”

“Once I kissed you, I wouldn’t want to stop.”

Harry leans in again. “So why’d you stop?”

They kiss again. Harry allows himself to indulge in the warmth of Louis’ mouth, the scrape of his beard against his chin, the press of his fingers on the swell of his bum. He thinks to push Louis’ hand lower or push Louis down to the tiled floor and mount his narrow hips.

A burst of laughter makes them tear apart. Footfalls in the hallway have them teetering away from each other. Harry reaches for the leftover dough on the worktop just as Andy and the other girls step into the kitchen without a glance in their direction. Louis lifts his wine glass to his mouth. Harry tosses some more flour onto the dough and begins kneading it vigorously.

The girls plop down on the couches in the living room, slurping on their Frappuccinos.

“Is the pizza almost ready?” Felicite calls to them.

“In another ten minutes,” Harry says.

He glances at Louis. Louis’ eyes are already on him. Secretly, they share a smile.


	4. Chapter 4

He spotted the bright, fiery cloud of her ginger hair from the back of the pub and hurried through the dense crowd toward her. Cassie turned, obviously searching for him. Her eyes, lined by thick black eyeliner, dipped down his frame and then upwards.

“What took you so long?” she asked.

“That fucking burger from the Admiral,” Harry said, patting his stomach. “It’s not sitting right.”

Cassie cringed. “You didn't miss anything, at least. This band is awful.”

He didn't have to listen long to know she was right, but he always hated when she said things like that aloud. It was a wonder they’d never been in a pub fight, though many times they'd come alarmingly close. The band onstage was a newer one. He’d never heard their music and he was thankful for it. But with their fans possibly surrounding them, he obviously wouldn’t say so.

Cassie dared to cover her ears with her hands. “Dreadful,” she said to him.

“Be nice.” He sighed. “I'm going to try to get us pints.”

“None for me,” Cassie said.

His brows furrowed. “You're sure?”

She nodded and turned towards the stage. With a shrug, he left to flirt with someone until they bought him a drink. It didn't take long. Folks were always weak for his dimple and the way he looked at them, with eager, patient eyes. Most just wanted to be listened to and he’d oblige them for as long as it took to score a drink. He returned to Cassie with a pint for himself and a Coke for her. She smiled and took it, gratefully.

They were there to see Primal Scream, a classic rock band that sounded a bit like The Rolling Stones. One of their songs had been tearing up the radio as of late and Cassie was addicted to it. She removed her ratty denim jacket, one she’d saved from the throes of a charity shop back home, and tied it around her waist. Sometimes she pulled her wild hair into a bun. That night, she allowed it to flow down her back. This was how she looked when she was ready to dance, often with her eyes drifting shut and her hands lifting to the air. Harry got wild for bands he truly loved, but Cassie danced her heart out for anyone. All it took was that one really good song.

He looked over at her in the midst of the set to find her still and froze himself. Her arms were at her sides and her eyes were trained on the stage but distant, like she was looking through the band. He leaned closer.

“Are you okay?” he yelled over the music.

She glanced at him and shot her thumb up and then focused adamantly on the stage. Harry’s brief bout of concern dwindled as the lead singer grew close to the crowd with his sweaty tan chest exposed. At sixteen, Harry had a one-track mind and the metaphorical train on that track was always headed towards beautiful men.

They left the venue out of breath and grinning when it was through. Harry was grinning, at least. Cassie was lingering behind him, hands stuffed in the pockets of her jacket. She collided with him, too distracted to see he’d stopped ahead of her on the pavement.

“What are you doing?” she hissed, stumbling backwards.

Harry focused entirely on her, no men to distract him now from the permanent wrinkle between her brows. He narrowed his eyes into discerning slits. “What's wrong with you?”

“I told you I was fine,” she said. She shot her thumb up again. “That's what this means.”

“Okay. Now try the truth.”

She scoffed and tried to side-step him. He glided easily in front of her again, spreading both arms out to his sides like an eagle.

“Would you get out of my bloody way? Just forget about it,” she groaned. “I'm _tired_.”

He shook his head. “I'm not moving until you tell me what's wrong. I’ll stand here all night if I have to. You don't know where I pitched our tent, so good luck sleeping comfortably tonight.”

“Harry, _forget_ _it_.”

He leaned against the lamppost beside them and crossed his arms. Perhaps not _all_ night but he'd stand here for long enough to piss her off and get her talking. She knew it too. She stared at him, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“Whatever it is,” he said. “The fact that you haven't told me yet is weird and scary. If you're in trouble, I can help. We’ll figure it out together. That's what we do. If it's so bad you think I can't help, we’ll find someone who can. Alright?”

She sighed loudly and looked up toward the sky, blinking rapidly, and for a second, he legitimately worried she’d cry. He uncrossed his arms, readying himself to catch her if she needed to collapse.

“I'm pregnant,” she said to the sky. “Don't laugh. I'm not being funny. I'm literally pregnant.”

Harry didn’t laugh. He might have if she hadn’t explicitly stated she was serious. But it sounded like her biggest joke yet. He was quiet for a while, lips pursing as he tried and failed to picture her getting even close enough to a man to allow this to happen. “How is that possible?” he asked. “Are you sure?”

“I spent my entire allowance on those fucking pregnancy sticks,” Cassie said. “Every single one of them was positive. I'm very sure and very pregnant.”

“But _how_?” he said again. That was the golden question. “How’s that possible?”

“Fucking hell.” She rubbed her temples vigorously. “Do you remember that party two months ago?” She looked at him steadily, pushing her hands into her pockets again and curling the jacket around herself. “Fitz gave us molly? We got so fucking sick, snogged with that bird from Donny, and woke up starkers?”

Harry’s eyes grew enormous as planets. Of course he remembered stumbling into the one vacant room behind Cassie and the girl they called Donna from Donny. Clever, right? He’d come up with that one himself. Donna wanted to kiss Harry, and Cassie wanted to kiss Donna, and Harry would much rather kiss the bloke who’d been handing him beers all night, but he followed the two girls to this dark bedroom anyway. Because Fitz gave them molly. Because his head was spinning so fast. Faster than a comet. Because Cassie was known for taking girls who’d been interested in him and putting the moves on them so bad they were drooling her name by the time she was through. She gave girls their Big Gay Moment. She took a decidedly straight bird and had her flying circles around her ginger hair like she was the sun. And Cassie wanted Donna.

He didn't know what he was doing. He was spinning. He was a comet and he didn't know why his clothes came off. He just knew they did. He just knew he felt good. There were hands on him and when he imagined them belonging to David Beckham, they felt amazing. And Cassie was happy. He knew that from the way she was moaning. And he was happy and dizzy. And had he just come? Yes, in fact, he had.

Harry shook his head, eyes locked on Cassie standing before him on the pavement in Glasgow, hugging herself defensively. "What are you--?" he mumbled.

"We had sex,” she said.

Harry stalked toward the street, as if to walk into oncoming traffic, and then stalked back. He exhaled like a motor boat. "This isn’t possible. Even if we did, there's no way. Not possible.”

"What the fuck do you mean ‘not possible’?” She made the last two words sound robotic. “That's literally how it works. One cock, one fanny. And bam! You've got a baby."

"I don't even _remember_ any of it."

She scoffed. "You sayin’ I’m not memorable? What’s that even matter, Harry? I remember it well enough. I remember climbing you like you were a bloody dildo."

"Jesus..." Harry shouldn’t have eaten that burger. Fuck that burger. Fuck the Admiral. Fuck this. His stomach was spinning like his head had been that night. Fuck that night.

"I'm pregnant,” Cassie said. “I'm allergic to every boy except for you. I’m pregnant and it's yours."

Harry covered his mouth with his hand, then covered his hand with his other hand, and then covered his entire face with both hands and his arms and the end of his shirt. He started to curl inward on himself, bending forward, trying to become a sphere. Trying to grow weightless so as to be a bubble. Trying to float away.

"Holy fucking _shit_.”

He actually yelled. His voice echoed down the street. A few folks loitering nearby looked at them, but he hardly noticed. He propped his hands on his hips and looked at her.

They stared at each other for a long while. Cassie shrugged, chewing her bottom lip. “I'm sorry.”

Her voice broke and that was all it took to snap him out of his growing bubble. His selfish bubble.

He sighed and shook his head, warding off her apology. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. She spread her palms on his back, her forehead to his chest.

"What do we do now?” Harry said.

"I've got no clue,” she said. “I tried to off the damn thing and got sick all over myself right at the clinic. I haven't gone back since."

"You were going to do it without me?” he asked. Cassie lifted her head. “Without telling me?"

"I'm _sorry_. I panicked,” she said. “My mum and Paddy are going to flip. All I want right now is a drink and I can’t even have that."

He gave her a small smile. “How about ice cream instead?”

Cassie exhaled. “Christ, I love you,” she said. “Please buy me ice cream."

Harry laughed and started toward the first restaurant he could find. They got a brownie sundae to share and dug around with their spoons silently.

"You know it's got fingernails?"

Harry looked at her. "Please stop calling it an it."

"What would you like me to call it?" Cassie asked, snarling.

"I don't know.” Harry drummed his fingers on the table top. “Let's call it X."

She rolled her eyes. "Okay well X has fingernails. And I think it hates pork."

He ignored the use of ‘it’ in favour of asking, "How do you know?"

"Paddy made sausages, and I was chucking up so bad from the smell alone. I feel like I've got an alien taking over my body. I feel like X has plans to destroy the world and she's using me as her facilitator."

Harry giggled, pressing his hand to his mouth. "Stop it.”

"My life is a scene from _Aliens_ ,” Cassie said. “I'm literally Ellen Ripley."

Harry snorted so loudly he inhaled a bit of ice cream. The rest ran down his chin. He cleaned himself up with a napkin. "You said ‘she’ just now, you know?”

“Did I?” Cassie shrugged. "Girls are such bitches, H. It has to be a girl." They laughed again. She had another spoonful of ice cream and looked out of the window beside them. "My mum might actually die. You know she’s got a weak heart.”

"She doesn’t have to find out,” Harry said. “I can go with you to the clinic. If you still want that.”

Cassie looked at him, resting her chin in her palm. "What do _you_ want?"

"That's not really important."

"It is to me."

Harry stabbed at the ice cream, his brows furrowed. He felt her eyes on her him and then her foot nudging his own beneath the table. Quietly, he said, "We always said we'd make a good looking kid, yeah? When people joked about us getting married?"

Cassie huffed a laugh. "We did."

"I believe that, you know?” Harry said. “Obviously, I never saw us actually having a kid. But like, I do think _your_ kid would be amazing and beautiful. Such a sick guitarist, I bet. Maybe with ginger hair and a great voice. Really amazing."

Cassie smiled and looked away, her eyes shining in the light from the outdoor street lamps.

"I think," Harry said. "You're going to make an amazing baby someday and an incredible mum, but you don't have to do any of that now. Not until you're ready. And whatever you decide, I'm with you on that. Even if you want to keep X. I'm with you."

"You always give such pretty speeches," Cassie said, swiping her thumb beneath her eye. "I've already made up my mind."

Harry lifted his brows. “And?”

"In nine months, X is going to issue in the apocalypse and I'll have no one to blame but myself."

Harry balled up a napkin and tossed it at her. They laughed, heads against the backs of the booths. Harry felt the first spark of true fear right then, thinking of all the moments that came next now. He thought about being a dad and though it terrified him, it was in a detached way. The reality of it was just that incomprehensible for him. He and Cassie laughed until the tears in her eyes were ones of laughter. They laughed, curled over the booth, as she explained their baby’s elaborate schemes for world domination.

They headed back to their tent afterwards, too tired to go anywhere else, and Cassie was still bitter about not having a beer. She cuddled up beside him. There wasn’t much room for them both as it was.

“I’m really scared.”

He heard her but struggled to respond. He was meant to be strong now, wasn’t he? That was what the next nine months would entail. She would need someone to tell her everything would be fine and there was nothing to fear. But Harry wasn’t ready to be that person just yet.

“I am too,” he said honestly.

He then wrapped his arms around her and held her until she fell asleep.

†

**FEBRUARY 2017**

“I don’t think the yellow daisies are any good. Do we have red?”

“Pretty sure we don’t,” Troye says.

Harry studies the bouquet on the worktop carefully. He knows how long and hard Troye’s worked on it, but he can’t send something out if it just doesn’t feel right. “We have red chrysanthemums, though. Let’s try those, yeah?”

Troye heads into the back where they keep the extra stock of flowers.

Harry gets back to his own bouquet. They have a wedding coming up in two months and today, the bride plans on having a look at a few arrangements. There’s also a retirement party on Saturday that they’re mostly prepared for. It’s an unusually busy week, not just with the shop but family too. It’s his birthday today. If not for a slew of messages when he woke up this morning, he might have forgotten.

Troye comes back with a bundle of red chrysanthemums and they work in silence for a bit.

“You’re still seeing that man in France, yeah?” Harry asks randomly. “How's that going?”

Troye smiles. “You mean Brice?”

“You’re only dating one man in France, aren’t you?”

Troye makes a face. “I _am_ still seeing him and he’s been perfect so far. He’s told me I have the voice of an angel. _And_ he likes to please,” Troye says with a shrug of his brows and a smirk. “If you pick up what I’m putting down? Or you know, catch my drift...?”

“Think I’ve got it,” Harry assures him. “He _sounds_ perfect. But when do I meet him and find out for sure?”

“You, me and Andy should take a day trip to Paris. Brice could meet us there. We’ll do some pub-crawling,” Troye suggests.

“Andy’s underage.”

Troye frowns. “She’s not turning 18 tomorrow?”

“Jesus, no. 17,” Harry says, with a slight shake of his head to ward off this sudden dizzy spell. “I’m having trouble believing even that. I swear a week ago she was seven.”

“You shouldn’t look so sad about it. Think about how much you’ve accomplished in the last ten years. Think about where she is now. That’s incredible.”

Harry smiles. It’s true that sometimes he wishes he could rewind a decade or so. But that would mean undoing all the time and effort he and Andy have put into her career and all the work he’s done to get by as a single father. It would be no small sacrifice.

“Thank you,” he says to Troye, twirling a stem of violet between his fingers. “We are rather incredible, aren’t we? If there was an award for best father and daughter, I think we’d win every year.”

Troye pats his forearm. “Settle down.”

Their laughter is the only sound in the shop. There are no patrons this early on the workday. It might be a holiday to his family, but to the rest of the world, it’s just business as usual.

It’s as the thought comes to him that the shop bell rings. A man in a green Polo shirt, crisp tan chinos, and a baseball cap steps inside.

Holding a bouquet.

Harry and Troye exchange a look. The man looks around at all the flowers in their canisters. His brows crease deeply and he glares at the slip of paper in his hand.

Harry sets the rose in his hand down and removes his gloves. “Could I help you?”

The man meets Harry’s gaze. “I’m not sure. I have a flower delivery here, but I think I might be in the wrong place.”

Harry’s lips twitch. “Probably. Maybe I can help find who you’re looking for.” He knows most of his neighbours, after all. He nods to the paper. “Let’s have a look.”

The man steps forward, setting the paper down on the worktop. “It’s for a Harry Styles.”

Harry sees Troye turn and look straight at him. He can picture the curious, cunning smile on his face. He stares down at the receipt and then up at the note card tucked in the bouquet, which very clearly reads, ‘Happy Birthday’.

Harry wets his lips. “From whom?”

“There’s no name on the receipt. Just the sender’s address…” The man twists the paper around so he can read, “28 Productions?”

Troye laughs aloud and slaps a hand over his mouth. “Oh my _God_ ,” he mumbles.

Harry’s skin heats up. He rests his forehead in his palm.

“I can ring my boss if there’s been a mixup,” the delivery man begins, warily.

Harry shakes his head. “No, thank you. It’s fine. I’m Harry Styles,” he says. He looks at the bouquet again. A beautiful, vibrant assortment.  One he imagines Louis picking out himself. “These are for me.”

The man has him sign the bottom of some form and then he departs, happy enough to be done with the lot of them.

“You have some explaining to do,” Troye says.

“I honestly don’t know what this is.”

“It’s a bloody bouquet.” Troye laughs. He hasn’t stopped laughing. “Oh my God. Are you two dating?”

“No,” Harry groans. “I don’t know what we’re doing.”

“Oh my God,” Troye wheezes. His eyes are damp with tears of joy.

“Please stop saying that.”

“Are you shagging him?”

“ _No_ ,” Harry says, pulling the notecard free. “We’re friends.”

“Please. It’s me you’re talking to. That is _not_ a friendly bouquet.”

Harry reads the note card. It’s simple but effective, as expected.

_Happy Birthday, H. Thinking of you. -Louis_

“He’s thinking of you!” Troye announces. “You’re absolutely, definitely dating! Does Andy know?”

“No,” Harry says quickly. “And we’re not dating. We’re just— It’s complicated. We kissed _one_ time. But he’s been away for weeks since then, and we haven’t spoken much or talked about what happened. And that’s it. There’s nothing else to it and there can’t be. I promised Andy I wouldn’t do this.”

“You don’t have to _marry_ him,” Troye says. “But he’s clearly interested in you. You’re interested in him. Why not see where it goes? Or why not take one night to have fun and be young and then forget it ever happened?”

“What would be the point of that?”

“If you do nothing, you’ll just spend forever wishing you did,” Troye says simply. A customer steps through the door and approaches the register. Turning to greet her, Troye says, “Just think about it.”

Harry lifts his bouquet from the worktop and heads upstairs to the flat. He sets it down in the center of the table and stares at it for a while, his hands propped on his waist. He paces back and forth past the table and then he heads into the kitchen.

His plan solidifies as he’s having a bowl of Rice Krispies.

Say Andy were okay with him and Louis dating, the rest of the band still wouldn’t be. It’d be bad to mix business with romance. Even if he knows that Louis is fair and honest, being with him would give the illusion that Andy had some advantage over the other girls. Right now, when things are still fairly new and tentative, that’s the last thing anyone needs. Louis, as wise as he is, would know this too.

He couldn’t go out on dates with Louis. He couldn’t bring him home to meet his family. He couldn’t even tell his daughter. All those things that define a serious, committed relationship would be out of reach for them. He knows that. Louis must too. But the goal here isn’t a serious relationship.

It’s sex.

He thinks about Glasgow and how far they might have gone if Zayn and the others hadn’t come back when they did. He would have taken Louis into his room and they would have taken each other. He wanted that. It was obvious Louis had too.

And that’s what this is now. A chance to have what they didn’t in Glasgow. A chance to come together, release all that sexual tension that’s been brewing between them for months, and then leave it there. Let it rest. Forget it ever happened.

Because Troye is also right that Harry won’t stop thinking about it. Just as he hasn’t stopped thinking about that kiss or imagining a hundred different scenarios in which it could happen again. He needs this. He wants this. And the bouquet sitting on his table is his best chance at having it.

He pulls his phone from his back pocket and it stares back at him.

Cassie would have dialled the number for him already. Or she would have asked, ‘What the fuck are you waiting for?’ He can hear her now.

He dials the number.

Louis answers on the second ring.

“Harry?”

He exhales through pursed lips, turning and leaning into the worktop. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Louis says. Harry can hear the smile in his voice. He presses his own smile into his palm, shaking his head. He feels like an adolescent.

“You sent me flowers,” he mumbles.

“I did,” Louis says with a laugh. Harry loves his laughter. “I’m glad you got them. Happy Birthday.”

“Thank you. They came just in time,” Harry says. “I don’t think anyone’s ever sent me flowers before.”

“I guessed as much, with you owning a flower shop. But I thought maybe you’d appreciate them for the same reason.”

“I do appreciate them. Very much. I love peonies and sunflowers and daisies. You’ve got all my favorites in there.”

“Lucky guess. They’re mine too,” Louis says. He’s quiet for a second. They both are. Harry slides to the floor and brings his knees to his chest, head reclined on a cupboard door. Louis clears his throat. “So I get in on Saturday.”

They’re on the same page here. They have to be.

Harry drums his fingers on his knee. “Do you?”

“Yeah. And—” Someone calls to him. Louis falls quiet while they prattle on. He responds quickly and briefly to them, though Harry can’t make sense of what he says. His voice is softer when he returns to the line. “Sorry, H. I really have to go. But I’ll be back Saturday and I’d like to see you sometime.”

“Anytime,” Harry says. He hesitates. “Andy’s actually staying with a friend for the weekend, so. We have our birthday party on Friday. But Saturday— It’ll just be a quiet night for me.”

There’s silence on Louis’ end. “Noted,” he says finally. “Hopefully, I’ll see you soon.”

“Hopefully,” Harry replies. “Have a good day, Louis.”

“You too. Have a Happy Birthday.”

†

He remembers the moment with stunning clarity even after seventeen years.

It was the first of February 2000. Harry refused to start the festivities until Cassie arrived. As pregnant as she was, everything took her five times longer to complete, as in getting dressed, getting into a car, walking (or waddling, really). He’d assumed she wouldn’t be there early. But the rest of his guests, who’d arrived at least an hour prior, were hungry for something other than pigs-in-a-blanket.

And then, a little after eight, the telephone mounted on the wall started ringing.

He turned away from the kitchen window and met eyes with his mum. Her knuckles had gone white around the receiver.

“We’ll be right there,” she said and rang off. He didn’t need for her to say it. There was a part of him that knew already. Even prior to the phone call, he knew. That if Cassie was simply running late, she would have rang him up and told him so. That after thirty-nine weeks and two days, this moment was long overdue. His mum said to him, “Cass is in labour. Get your coat.”

Harry was already halfway to the cupboard.

They told their guests to help themselves to the food and left the majority of them there. He, his mum, his dad, and Gemma hurried into their car. A few aunts and uncles, some cousins and friends followed them to The Princess of Wales Community Hospital.

Though the actual birth was relatively quick, getting there took hours. They arrived around nine, but Cassie didn’t give her first push until the next morning at 2 AM. He was allowed into the room with her mum, Diane. If not for her ginger sweat-damp hair, Harry would have thought Cassie’s head was the inside of a watermelon. She was flushed so deeply he worried she would explode, her mouth open in this silent, everlasting scream. He had a funny thought that if he put her guitar in her hands, she’d look like she usually did whenever they rehearsed.

Even funnier were the lines to ‘Cherry Bomb’ playing on a loop in his head. He pictured this baby, who they’d long since decided would take over the world, popping into the open and declaring:

_I'm your ch ch ch ch ch cherry bomb_

Cassie leaned into her next push. Sweat dripped from her forehead. He couldn’t remember when he’d taken her hand but she had a death grip on his now. The song kept playing. He was grateful for it. Everything was easier with a little music.

_Hello world, I'm your wild girl_

Then the blaring started. And she’d arrived, seemingly out of nowhere, cradled in the doctor’s gloved hands. This microscopic thing with her tiny, red mouth open, blaring, wailing like the worst alarm clock. Wrinkled like a prune. He hated prunes, but his love for her was immediate.

Later, he had time to hold her. Just the two of them (and Cassie sleeping nearby). Her eyes were shut, but when he whispered to her -- a tentative 'Hi, Andy' -- they fluttered open. She looked right at him and his world was thrown off kilter. An explosion occurred. Cherry bomb had never been more accurate.

He commits himself to remembering it all exactly as it happened. He replays it in his head every year, every birthday as if they’d actually recorded it on video from start to finish. He wishes they had. But it’s enough to just recall the memory and share it sometimes with Andy.

Back in 2000, his mum brought his birthday cake to the hospital later that day for his family and Cassie’s family to eat in her room.

In 2017, there are two cakes, one decorated with a portrait of Harry’s face and another with Andy’s. Harry’s cake bears thirty-four candles and Andy’s, of course, seventeen. The lights have been dimmed to allow their glow to illuminate the dining room. Harry leans forward, holding his hair back and away from the flame. Andy does the same. And they blow, cheeks inflating like the balloons all over the house. They exhaust every candle with a great rush of air. Camera flashes erupt. Their family claps and cheers, swarming them with hugs and kisses ready.

“Harry’s cake is a strawberry swirl. Andy’s is chocolate and Nutella,” his mum says, pointing to each one. “The cupcakes are peanut butter.”

“You’ve outdone yourself,” Harry says to her and she pats his shoulder as if to say, ‘I know’. He presses a kiss to her cheek and then, at the insistence of his aunt, he poses beside Andy for a picture, throwing his arm around her shoulders.

“I’ve got to get one for Instagram too,” Andy says, accessing the app. She extends the phone in front of them and Harry, already tipsy from one and a half glasses of wine, sticks his tongue out towards her cheek.

She scrutinizes the picture afterwards. “Cute,” she decides and proceeds to post it.

Harry takes the spare knife from Gemma and slices Andy’s cake, handing plates out to their guests. He licks stray icing from his thumbs when he’s finished and takes a piece for himself, joining Niall and Liam in the back garden. Gemma joins them a moment later with Ralph.

He watches them all chat, seemingly unaware of his lack of participation. There’s too much on his mind. Even the wonders of his mum’s cake are futile in distracting him.

He hasn’t told anyone about the flowers, though he posted a picture of them on Instagram with an inconspicuous caption. He pulls up the app to look at them for the fifth time that night and sees Andy’s post racking up comments. He snorts at the classic ones, like ‘your dad is hot,’ ‘is that your dad???’ or ‘no way that’s your dad.’ There’ll come a day when Andy introduces Harry as her father and people immediately believe her, when the wrinkles have plundered the smooth skin he’s managed to retain, and his solitary grey hair has more company. But for now, Harry is the older brother and the twin and the best friend, as Andy says herself.

‘Happy Birthday to my best friend first, Dad second’, her caption reads. ‘I love you the most in the world.’

He smiles and starts to post something of his own, choosing the picture of their cakes side-by-side that he took earlier. He writes, ‘If I have to share a party with anyone, I’m happy it’s you. Happy Birthday to my little Bee. H’ and posts it. Louis likes it within the next two minutes, just as he did with the picture of the flowers. Harry spends the rest of the night thinking about him.

†

In the morning, he has breakfast with his mum while the sun and the rest of his family sleep on. Afterwards, he prepares himself for the drive home. Andy is still in bed when it’s time for him to leave. He presses a kiss to her head and ruffles her hair.

“See you next week,” he says.

She smiles and pulls her duvet up to her chin. He shuts the door behind himself, allowing one of the cats inside before he does.

Liam, who also spent the night, helps him carry some of his gifts and the leftover cake to the car.

“Have a safe flight,” Harry tells him, voice muffled as they hug. He kisses his cheek. “Ring more often.”

“Could say the same to you,” Liam says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’ll stay in touch.”

Harry smiles, climbing into his Jeep. He turns the heat all the way up, shivering against the cold, and then reluctantly rolls his window down because Liam’s still standing there, looking like he has something to say.

“Go inside,” Harry says. “It’s freezing.”

Liam stays put. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, yeah?” he asks. “You were so quiet last night. Niall thought so too.”

“I’m good,” Harry says. As in, up-to-no-good. “I was just tired.”

Liam looks unconvinced. “Just because I’m away, it doesn’t mean I’m not here for you and Andy. If something goes wrong, I’d be on the first flight.”

Harry huffs a laugh. “You’re going to make a good husband one day. Someone’ll be happy to have you doting on them.”

“Should we get married then?” Liam muses, tilting his head and rubbing his bearded chin inquisitively. “I’m sure Andy would approve.”

Harry cringes. “I think I’d attempt to kill you on the honeymoon.”

“At the altar more like,” Liam says, laughing. He sets his hand on the roof of the car. “Seriously, mate, I mean it. I’m here if there's something troubling you.”

“I know. Liam, it’s freezing. I want to put the window up,” Harry says. “You’re not even wearing a coat.”

“I’m going. I'm going,” Liam says, moving away from the Jeep. “Just remember what I said.”

Harry gives him a thumbs up and raises his window. He pushes his shades on and pulls onto the road.

He may be irresponsible a lot of the time but he hates lying, especially to people who care. It’s why after tonight (if tonight goes as he hopes), he’ll seriously commit to turning his life around. He’ll try to date someone seriously. He’ll go on Match.com even.

But just one last time, he’ll let this irresponsible thing happen and then he’ll act his age. Thirty-four doesn’t mean he needs to settle down. He knows that. But it’s what he wants for himself. Perhaps it’s time he started behaving like it.

He arrives home at 10 AM, showers and heads down to the shop at 11. Troye is already waiting with tea. They drink quickly and nibble at muffins from the day prior.

“Alright,” Harry says with a heavy sigh. “Let’s load the car up.”

They carry their various arrangements out to the Jeep, using the backseat and the boot to store it all. Harry keeps thinking he’ll need a bigger car one day but for now, his works fine for the size of his business. They get on the road and make it to Sabine McMillan’s retirement party within thirty minutes.

He chats for a moment with Sabine’s daughter, Elle, running through the set-up with her once more. There are nine bouquets in all and a cake. It’s a simple red velvet and strawberry concoction, large enough to feed forty. Troye sets up the arrangements, full of sunflowers which are Sabine’s favourites. Harry carries the cake to the fridge at the venue.

“I’d recommend turning the heat down a bit,” Harry tells Elle, while he’s writing up a receipt for her. “It’s better for the flowers and the cake too once you take it out from the fridge. I discounted you the off-season price for the roses like we talked about. All of the bouquets are good for over a week and I’ve left some preservative for you. Room-temp water every other day. There are some instructions on the back of the receipt too.”

“Harry, you give me this same spiel every time I order flowers from you,” Elle says. “I think by now I could recite it word for word.”

“I’d like to see you try,” he says, handing the receipt to her. He grins. “Be good to the flowers.”

“I always am, but thank you. Mum will be pleased.”

“I’m happy to hear it,” Harry says. “Tell her I said congrats.”

“Will do,” Elle says. “Thanks again, love.”

Troye is sitting in the Jeep, shivering while he waits for the heat to kick in. Harry climbs inside, blowing warm air into his palms.

“Let’s grab lunch on our way back,” Troye suggests.

Harry starts up the car. “Sounds good to me.”

“Your phone buzzed. Think you got a message.”

Harry snatches it up from the centre console, the spare coins he keeps there rattling from the impact. It’s a message from his mum.

**_You left one of your scarves! The one with the red leaves._ **

He sighs and drops the phone in his lap. Troye’s eyes are on him.

“Don’t ask,” he says, right before turning onto the road. And Troye, thankfully, doesn’t ask.

The day passes by as usual. A few customers come through. They sweep the shop and wash vases. They dispose of old flowers, preparing themselves for a new delivery on Monday. Troye sings along to the record player. Harry sweeps and joins in with him when his head’s not muddled with thoughts.

His mobile is silent in his back pocket.

By 5 PM, he thinks it’s safe to say Louis isn’t planning to stop by. He would have said something. Anything at all. Even a ‘Looking forward to seeing you.’ At least, that’s what Harry’s frenzied conscience decides.

Troye wraps his scarf around his neck and tugs on his coat. “Any fun Saturday night plans?”

Harry’s phone buzzes and he yanks it from his back pocket, just as manically as he did earlier.

This time, it’s Niall.

**_Want to hang later? I’ll bring beer._ **

He tosses the phone onto the worktop.

Troye arches both brows. “Don't ask?”

“Please,” Harry says, massaging his temples. “I don't have any plans. What about you?”

“Drinks with friends,” Troye says. He can't help that he looks worried. “Want to come? They're all in uni but they're great.”

Harry shakes his head. “No, thank you, but it's alright. Have fun. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You’re good, yeah?” Troye asks.

“I’m fine,” Harry says with a smile.

“See you tomorrow then.”

Harry watches him go. The shop bell rings after him. Harry walks to the door, twists the lock, and flips the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’. He pulls the blinds down and pulls his hair from its bun, scratching at his scalp. He unties his apron and hangs it up in the back.

On his way upstairs, he hoists his white flag into the air and sends a ‘sure’ back to Niall.

He’s both disappointed and grateful. The anxiety and guilt fall away the instant he sends that message. He showers again, washes his hair, and settles for a wank while he’s at it. He has a burger for dinner that he cooks in a frying pan. He slaps some cheese on it, some onion and pepper, and grabs a beer from the fridge. He eats, sitting on the kitchen floor for no particular reason, and scrubs his dishes and the rest of the kitchen clean when he's finished.

He checks his phone again. Niall should be by around seven.

At 6:34, he has to wee and stands for a few minutes in the mirror afterwards, poking at the spots on his forehead. It doesn’t make sense that he should have a daughter with her own career and still suffer acne. He searches for the cream his mum’s dermatologist recommended for him, the one that’s a few months too old now and has probably lost its touch.

Andy left all her cosmetic shit behind. All these hair products and body potions she hardly ever used. He can’t even find his cream in the cupboard amongst her mess. Tomorrow, after he goes grocery shopping, he’s going to clean it all out. That’s bound to make him feel better. Maybe he’ll clean the whole flat.

He finds one of her packaged facial masks. It’s a damp cloth sheet with holes for the eyes and mouth. She liked to put them on and pop out at him in the dark. He warned her that one day, he’d drop dead right there in the corridor. Needless to say, the threat never deterred her from tormenting him.

The memory makes him sad now, but he was sad already. He finds himself tearing open the facial mask packet. It claims to be infused with avocado extract to rid him of his acne. He attaches the mask to his face carefully, smoothing the edges out and laughs, for the first time all night, at his reflection. He snaps a pic and sends it to Andy.

The doorbell chimes, though he nearly misses it with the sound of the telly on and a heavy rain beating down on the roof. He hurries to buzz Niall in and leaves the mask on. He's going to scare the piss right out of him. He hears his footsteps on the stairs seconds later and yanks the door open before he can knock, smiling as manically as he can with this mask on.

Of course, it’s not Niall.

Louis’ blue eyes widen until they each look like Neptune.

“Jesus,” Harry hisses. Quickly, he turns away from the door and peels the mask from his face. It leaves his skin covered in sticky residue. He returns to the door, the heat rising fast beneath his skin. Blushing _and_ covered in goo? How perfect. The overripe tomato look was just the one he was going for.

“Louis,” he exhales. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Louis replies, seconds from laughter. He bites into his bottom lip to stop himself. “Wow.”

“Spare me please,” Harry says, holding the door open. He nods inside and Louis steps past him. It's best that he not think about his appearance, but he does anyhow. He’d been prepared for Niall, which meant completely and utterly unprepared for anything at all. His shirt is clean at least, but it’s covered in pineapples with smiley faces, and he’s wearing pyjama bottoms.

Louis, however, is in a slightly worse state than him. Still attractive as ever but drenched. His dark hair clings to his head, damp and dripping with rainwater. His jacket and even his shirt are mostly soaked.

“What happened?” Harry asks.

“I parked down the road and wasn’t expecting the rain on the way.”

Harry pouts, reaching out to flick a tendril of Louis’ hair falling into his eyes. Louis’ expression softens. Harry wonders about his own expression. He wonders if he looks as happy as he feels now. He drops his hand. “Let me get you a towel.”

“Thank you,” Louis says, following him further into the flat. He sits at the kitchen table while Harry digs around in the cupboard by the loo. “How’ve you been?”

“Good,” Harry calls back, seizing one of the newer towels he owns. He returns to the kitchen and hands it off. “You?”

“Better now,” Louis says, attempting to dry his hair. It's unclear if he means because he's here or because of the towel. Harry watches him for a moment and then reaches out to stop him.

“Let me,” he says, taking the towel from him. Louis isn’t getting the roots of his hair like he should. Harry knows from washing Andy’s hair for years. Granted, hers was curly, thick and unruly. Louis’ hair might not need the vigorous drying Harry used for her. But it gives him reason to touch him. “Please?”

Louis drops his hands to his lap and waits. Harry steps closer and runs the towel from the back of Louis’ hair to the front, applying pressure to his scalp.

“You weren’t expecting me,” Louis says.

Harry shakes his head. “Not really.”

Louis glances up at him with a wince. “Did I read you wrong?” he asks. “On the phone earlier this week?”

Harry lowers the towel. If he were properly dressed, feeling less like a football dad, he might climb into Louis’ lap and whisper saucily in his ear, ‘You read me right’.

But he doesn’t feel seductive enough for that. He fears it’d turn to a joke. So he simply shakes his head and says, “You didn’t. I just hadn’t heard from you. I figured you weren’t coming.”

Louis’ lips twitch. “Sorry about that. I got off my flight and hurried here.”

“I’m glad you did,” Harry says, setting the towel down on the kitchen table. Louis lifts his hands to Harry’s hips and Harry's heartrate spikes. They look at each other. Harry cups the back of Louis’ neck, his thumbs brushing his skin. His eyes are on Louis’ mouth but he doesn’t kiss him. Slowly, he pushes Louis’ coat off his shoulders and down his arms. “I’ll hang this up to dry. Would you like a glass of wine?”

“Please,” Louis says.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Harry says, waving towards his tiny living room. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Louis' brows furrow. “Alright.”

Harry backs out of the kitchen, taking the towel and Louis’ coat with him. He heads straight to his room when he's out of sight, yanking his phone from his pocket along the way. He pulls up Niall’s contact while he grabs a hanger and hangs Louis’ coat up by the front door.

**Louis is here. Will explain later. Don't come. Sorry!**

He sets his mobile down while the message sends. He changes into a plain black shirt and comfy joggers. He rinses his face and brushes his teeth faster than he ever has before. He pulls his hair from its bun and shakes it out like a madman. It looks horrendous. He puts it back into the bun. He finds the lube in the cupboard and does what he can for the few minutes he allows himself.

He knows he’s taken too long. He thinks of that scene in _One Fine Day_ with George Clooney and Michelle Pfeiffer. She’d taken too long to change and make herself presentable and when she’d come from the loo, George’s character was asleep. He doesn’t want Louis to fall asleep.

He heads into the kitchen, extracts two glasses and a bottle of wine, and pours generously.  Then finally, he returns to Louis, a little out of breath and trying to pretend otherwise.

Louis snorts when he sees him. “Did you change?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry says, handing him the glass.

“Cute,” Louis says, grinning.

Harry doesn’t know how he feels about that. He specifically rid himself of the pineapple shirt to be seen as _sexy_ ,.

Louis gestures to one of the portraits on the wall where he’s stood.

“That’s Cassie, yeah?”

Harry knows the picture well without having to look — one of her at 19. It’s the last one he’d get. “It is.”

“She’s beautiful,” Louis says.

“She was.”

The TV is on like Harry left it, as is the record player. Louis looks at another picture Harry has on the coffee table. It’s already too addicting seeing him like this, having him alone. How will he cope with only having this once?

“That’s your mum and dad?”

“Yes,” Harry says.

Louis points. “And that’s Andy in your mum’s arms?”

“Yes,” Harry says, smiling. “She was two.”

“Your family’s beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Harry says. “Is your shirt dry?”

He asks but he can see that it’s not. It’s distracting him in all honesty. Or making him focus. The way the material clings to Louis’ torso practically demands for it to be pulled off.

Louis’ brow creases and he looks down at himself as if he’d forgot his shirt was damp at all. He tugs at it. “It’s getting there.”

“I could toss it in the dryer for you,” Harry offers.

Louis smirks and lifts his brows. “Trying to get me out of my shirt already?”

“Thought that’s why you came,” Harry says candidly.

“Oh? Did I say that?”

“Not explicitly. But I don’t think you needed to.”

They simply look at each other.

Merely standing alone in this room with him feels intimate, even if they said and did nothing. Louis sets his wine glass down on the coffee table and steps closer. Harry watches him until he’s directly in front of him, more than close enough to touch. And touch, he does. His hands grasp Harry’s waist again and slide to his lower back.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you while I was away,” Louis says, head slightly bowed as if he's suddenly, uncharacteristically shy. “That's why I'm here.”

“Good,” Harry says, lifting his hands to Louis’ face. “Me neither.”

Their mouths meet. Harry cradles and strokes the back of his neck, pushing his hand into his hair, ruining it more than it already is.

“I just wanted to see you,” Louis says, their lips suspended but close. “To say that to you.”

Harry looks him in the eye. “You drove all this way to tell me you can’t stop thinking about me?”

Louis doesn't answer. He doesn't have to. His eyes are on Harry's mouth. Their lips brush.

“Did you think about touching me?” Harry asks boldly. He feels the minx of his university years stepping into the open, ready for her comeback. He runs his mouth down Louis’ neck. He feels him swallow. Harry smiles, slowly, victoriously. “I bet you did. Why don't you do something about it, Mr Tomlinson?”

Louis meets his gaze again. There's a half-second of hesitation and then, he surges forward. Their mouths clash this time, breath hissing from their noses and mouths. This is the tipping point. This is the moment at the precipice that Harry’s been waiting for. He reaches for the hem of Louis’ shirt, peels it up and off, and pushes them over the edge.

He walks backwards, knows where his room is and sets his course there. Louis follows him, reaches for him, shoves him into the wall by the fridge. Harry’s shirt is gone the second Louis gets his hands on it. Louis’ mouth lands on the base of his neck and he bites harshly. He pulls back and runs his eyes down Harry’s torso.

“Jesus. Look at you,” he whispers, his hand moving down Harry's chest and abs.

Harry pushes his thigh against Louis’ crotch. Louis groans, biting again at Harry’s collarbone, sucking. He cups Harry’s arse and squeezes. He uses his hold to drag Harry forward and pushes the clothed length of his cock against Harry’s thigh. It’s animalistic and mindless, humping each other beside the pots and pans. But it feels good. Everything with Louis feels too good.

Harry reaches for Louis’ belt loops and steps away. “I want you out of these jeans,” he declares. He tugs on them and starts walking to his bedroom again, dragging Louis along behind him. He shoves him down on his mattress, reaches again for the top of his jeans, and quickly gets them undone. He drags them down his legs and climbs into his lap.

Louis falls backward on the bed, pulling Harry down to meet him. They kiss again. Harry straddles him, never more dissatisfied with the concept of clothing than he is right now, but it’s enough to grind senselessly into Louis’ erection. It's more than enough to elicit each of his soft groans.

“I took care of myself a bit in the loo,” Harry says, sitting upright. “I’m ready if you are.”

Louis blinks at him, lips parted in stupor.

“I’m asking if you want to fuck me.”

“Yes,” Louis says quickly. “I do, yeah.”

Harry climbs off of him. He gets condoms and lube from his bedside drawer and tosses them to the mattress. He starts to reach for his waistband when Louis sets a hand atop his to stop him.

“Are we in a hurry?” he asks.

Harry looks at his hand on his joggers and the condoms on the bed. “We don’t have to be.”

“Good.” Louis sits forward. He slides his hand over Harry's hip, stroking his skin with his thumb. “You're so beautiful,” he says. Harry bites his bottom lip. Can't remember the last time anyone called him beautiful either. Louis lifts his other hand to his hip. Both are warm and steady. “I want to take my time with you.”

He presses his mouth to Harry's hip. Harry tries to swallow the weird lump in his throat but it doesn't budge. Tentatively, he runs his fingers through Louis’ hair.

“Love these tattoos,” Louis says, mouth grazing the inked laurels decorating Harry's hips. He slips has hand down the back of Harry's joggers. His fingers slide past the crease of his bum.

“All of you. Love it all,” Louis murmurs, biting softly on his hip. It's too intimate for a one-off. Harry has the worst thought right then: that Louis seems like the kind of man to say ‘I love you’ first. It’s such a tease, especially for Harry, who’s fallen in love quite a few times (or at least, thought he did) and has never had the pleasure of being loved in return.

Louis’ finger moves further south and flirts with his hole, pressing down a bit, easing off.

Harry groans, tugging on his hair. “Don't tease me.” He means it in more ways than one.

“But you make it easy,” Louis replies, smiling. He looks at Harry while pushing his dry finger just past his rim. Harry gasps, balling his fist up in Louis’ hair. He leans in and lands one kiss on him before Louis pulls back entirely.

He tugs on Harry’s waistband. “Take these off. Just these. And get on the bed,” he says, hands falling to his sides. “Hands and knees.”

Harry hesitates. _Take my time_ apparently translates to ‘Be in charge’. Louis lifts his brows but aside from that, offers nothing else. Harry's cock twitches, curiously. He reaches for his waistband, pushes his joggers down, and crawls onto the mattress.

Louis stands a second later and Harry turns his head to watch him. He sees him lean down, stepping out of his pants.

“I don't get to see your cock like this,” Harry complains.

“I’ll send you some dick pics afterwards.”

Harry chuckles, resting his head against his forearms. He wiggles his bum in the air. “I'm getting impatient, Mr Tomlinson.”

“That gets to me,” Louis murmurs.

“Mr Tomlinson?”

“Yes,” Louis says sharply.

Harry’s breath hitches. “In a good way?”

Louis begins to pull Harry's briefs down over the swell of his bum. “Yes,” he says.

“Because you like to be the boss?” Harry questions. Louis leaves the briefs around Harry's thighs, which functions to bind them together. Harry's cockhead bubbles over with precome.

“I am the boss,” Louis replies.

Harry smiles. “You want to control me?”

“Yes,” Louis says, leaning over Harry's back. He pulls the elastic tie from Harry’s hair and his messy curls fall free. He runs his hand through them and holds his hair away from the back of his neck. He presses his mouth there and asks, “Do you want to be controlled?”

Again, Harry hesitates. Louis’ cock nudges the naked cleft of his arse. Slowly, he grinds against him and Harry moans softly, pushing back. “Yes,” he breathes.

Louis pushes two wet fingers inside of him. “You did good, but not enough.”

“I don’t care. I like it to hurt sometimes,” Harry confesses.

“I’ll remember that,” Louis says, which is an odd comment to make. Almost as if they were planning to make a habit of this. Harry doesn’t respond, because he doesn’t know how and Louis pushes three fingers into him. He groans loudly.

“Fuck. That feels good,” he mumbles, pushing backward. Louis sucks on a spot beneath his ear, which makes him shiver. He imagines the mark blooming bright red beneath his mouth. Louis nurses that spot with his tongue while stroking the spot inside him with his fingers. It’s overwhelming and Harry needs more.

“Fuck me, Louis,” he says. “Do it now.”

“Not very polite,” Louis replies.

Harry laughs. “Please, sir.”

“Such a quick learner.” Louis reaches for the condom. Everything he does then is fast-paced, rolling it down his length, slicking himself up. He tightens his grasp on Harry's hair.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Been ready,” Harry murmurs, drawing a deep breath. The anticipation thrums all down his body. And yet he still isn't fully prepared for when Louis enters him and slowly pushes in until he's full.

It's been too long.

“Going to fuck you senseless,” Louis says.

“Yes, please,” Harry says politely and breathlessly.

Louis pulls out and snaps his hips back home. It's a powerful, shocking thrust that has Harry's hands curling up in his duvet and a low, guttural moan falling from his mouth. He doesn't have time to come down from the first one before Louis delivers the second. He fucks him just like that, merciless thrust after thrust after thrust, like a machine that doesn't need oil and a Maserati that never runs out of fuel.

“So fucking lush,” Louis says, hoarsely. His voice is high-pitched and fragile like fine china. He drags Harry’s hips back to meet his own. “ Just like I imagined for weeks.”

Harry doesn’t know how to respond to that grade of intimacy, so he doesn’t at all. He can’t actually. He feels choked up by the pleasure rushing through him. He pushes his face into the mattress and pushes his hips backwards. Louis releases his hair to set a gentle hand against the base of his throat. Harry turns his head for a kiss and their lips and tongues collide. It's hard to keep still for it when Louis refuses to slow down and each onslaught of his hips pushes Harry further into the mattress. He's practically one with his bedding. His cock brushes the duvet each time and he's so close so soon. Too soon. He feels like a teenager. His thighs shake with the need for release.

He breaks away from Louis’ mouth with a gasp and chokes on his next word: “Coming.”

Louis pulls out. He _pulls_ _out_. He turns Harry over on the mattress, pulls his briefs the rest of the way off, and pushes into him again. Harry wasn't even ready. The impact of Louis’ cockhead has his eyes rolling.

“Oh my fucking…” Harry groans, nails dragging down Louis’ back. “God, yes.”

“Want to see you when it happens. Let me see you come,” Louis says, leaning atop him again. Sweat drips from his damp forehead and falls to Harry's neck. Their gazes polarize and lock. Harry lifts his hands to touch and stroke Louis’ jaw.

“Touch me.”

“Not yet,” Louis says. “I think you can come like this.”

Impossible. “Please.”

Louis kisses him again and shuts him up. “Just like this,” he says, following another drive of his cock, another head-on collision with Harry's spot. He sucks Harry's earlobe into his mouth. He rubs Harry's nipple between his fingers. He meets him at every point of need and stokes the fire wherever it burns.

Harry’s eyes pop open. He can't remember when he closed them. And his vision fills with Louis and a thousand bright black spots surrounding him. His mouth falls open to make way for a long, voiceless moan. And he comes, so hard he feels the warmth strike his chin.

Louis pulls out, whips off his condom, and takes his own cock in his hand. He plants his feet on the ground again, stroking himself, just as quickly as he moved his hips. When it happens, he shoots across Harry's abs, his cock, his thighs. Harry slides a hand through the mess coating his body and lifts a finger to his mouth.

“Insane,” Louis pants, his dark eyes falling on him, chest heaving.

“Speak for yourself,” Harry says, lifting and offering his hand. Without pause, Louis leans in and closes his lips around his middle finger and sucks it clean. It's as filthy as Harry likes it. Before Louis can move to his next finger, Harry drops his hand and kisses him instead.

He pulls back. “I need to clean myself off,” he says. “Wait here.”

Louis rolls away and collapses on the bed, his cock lying against his thigh, his eyes closing. Harry hobbles to the loo and cleans himself up. He returns with a damp flannel for Louis.

“Hey,” he says, prompting Louis to open his eyes. “May I?”

Louis props himself up with his elbows. “Please. Thank you.”

Harry wipes his cock clean and uses the other side to wipe Louis’ palm. “All good,” he says, smiling. He starts to turn away but Louis reaches for him and tugs him close. He presses his forehead to the centre of Harry’s stomach. Harry drops the flannel to the floor and curls his arms around his shoulders, fingertips grazing his scalp lightly.

“Do you have rules about men sleeping over?” Louis asks. He presses a kiss to Harry’s hip. Cupping the backs of his thighs, he tugs him in again, tipping him forward.

Harry climbs into his lap. “Rules?” he asks.

Louis clarifies: “Would you prefer for me to leave?”

Harry's brow creases. “No. I want you to stay,” he says, smiling. He kisses him again. Louis falls backwards on the mattress, taking Harry along with him. They laugh into each other’s mouths and kiss and kiss. Harry sits up straight, running his palm across Louis’ chest. “This was fun. But we’ve got to practice self-control from now on. Seriously.”

“What do you mean?”

Harry sighs. “This _really_ can't happen again.”

The curious smile on Louis’ lips is like fog breathed onto a windowpane. It fades quickly. He lowers his gaze to a random spot on Harry’s chest, his brows dipping into a deep V. “Why is that?”

It comes as a surprise to Harry that this warrants explaining.

“Louis, you're Andy’s producer, first of all,” Harry says. It seems like the most logical place to start. “And I made this promise to her that I wouldn't even _flirt_ with you. I've obviously fucked that up a few times now but I couldn't help it. Or _we_ couldn’t.” He shrugs. “But I think it doesn’t hurt to just have this once.”

Louis’ eyes narrow to slits. “Why on _earth_ would you promise something like that?”

The words leave his mouth too quickly and too quietly, like a whip. Harry hears the tension there and reads it in the twist of his mouth. He studies him carefully before he speaks.

“She's worried about creating more tension in the band,” he says slowly. “It all seems settled now but it’s not apparently. She worries people will think she’s got an unfair advantage if you and I were actually dating or something, and I get it. I see where she's coming from. Things aren't the best in the band and they never truly have been.”

Louis simply looks at him. He's expressionless the way he usually is with strangers and the way he hasn't been with Harry in weeks. Slowly, Harry climbs out of his lap and sits on the mattress beside him. He feels suddenly self-conscious about his nakedness, which he deserves for bringing this up now. He at least could have waited until after breakfast. He was so looking forward to wowing Louis with his banana bread French toast.

“You really could’ve mentioned all that before sleeping with me,” Louis says. He stands abruptly, reaching for his briefs on the floor.

Harry watches him and his eyes widen further with each second that passes. “I’m confused,” he says honestly. “I thought—”

“That I wouldn’t mind?” Louis asks. He breathes a surprised laugh. “Jesus, you really thought I’d come here just for sex.”

Harry struggles for an answer, though it obviously isn’t a question. Louis pulls on his jeans and starts towards the door.

“Louis,” Harry says, climbing off his mattress. He finds his own briefs and clumsily yanks them on. He doesn't know why he's following him or calling after him. The truth is that he fucked up. He sees that now with gut-wrenching clarity. There's no explanation that will justify it. He simply fucked up.

“Don't leave like this,” Harry says as Louis pulls his shirt over his head. He follows him to the door and watches while Louis tugs his coat on. “Louis, I’m doing what’s best for my daughter. That’s all.”

Louis freezes with his hand on the doorknob. He looks at Harry, his jaw clenching and unclenching.

“Don't do that,” he says with a minute shake of his head. “Don't make it seem like you have to choose. Like I'm giving you a fucking ultimatum. That's not what this is. What did you think I meant when I said I hadn't stopped thinking about you? When I sent you flowers? You thought I was being _cute_? Thought I did all that for a night with you?”

Again, Harry hesitates to answer. He doesn't think Louis even wants him to.

“I have _feelings_ for you,” Louis says, eyes drifting over Harry's face. His expression softens for one infinitesimal moment and then hardens again. “That's what this is. Not an ultimatum. Not a bloody proposal for marriage. Just the truth. And before you got me in your bed, you at least owed me the same.”

And that's it. Harry releases a breath like the air has been punched out of him. Louis pulls the door open and steps through without another glance.

†

The following week is full of intense bouts of guilt, followed by periodic moments of clarity. Managing the flower shop and preparing for Valentine’s Day take up a lot of his time. Finishing off his birthday cake surprisingly helps, at least because it compels him to go for a jog. He keeps busy but the guilt is always there when he has a second to pause. Whenever he stops to catch his breath, he thinks of Louis.

Andy comes to stay that weekend. She’s set to leave for LA in a little under three weeks and so the task of doing what they can while she’s around occupies much of his time too. Troye takes the day off on Saturday. Andy works the shop with Harry and his regular customers are happy enough to see her. They order a pizza and work on songs for her album all Saturday night.

Sunday, they have lunch with Gemma and Alfie, and then Andy convinces him afterwards to go see _Resident Evil: The Final Chapter_ with her. He regrets the decision when it’s over but he can’t say it doesn’t keep him at least a little distracted.

He and Andy make beignets that night after dinner. They sit on the couch eating as many as they can, icing sugar turning sticky on their fingers. A plan of redemption forms in his head while beside her. He says, with his mouth full, “I’ll drive you back to London in the morning.”

“Why?” Andy asks. “I don’t mind the train.”

“I know,” he says, licking sugar from his thumb. “I want to see Simone. Thought it’d be nice to pay her a visit. So, I might as well drive you back.”

Andy shrugs, her eyes returning to the telly. “Alright.”

The longer he goes without doing this, the worse he feels. Valentine’s Day is their biggest of the year. He needs his mind clear to be productive and carrying his guilt around like an illness won’t help.

The next morning, he drives Andy back to London in time for her rehearsal. He drops her off at 28 Productions, gives himself a minute, and then heads inside.

He’s armed with this box of beignets and a smile when he steps up to the receptionist’s desk. Her name tag reads, ‘Frances’ and she smiles at him, lifting her brows.

“You look familiar,” she says.

Harry smiles back. “I’m Andy’s dad, Harry.”

Frances snaps her finger. “Yes, of course. Were you looking for Andy?”

“No, actually…” Harry glances towards Louis’ office just beside her. “I was wondering if I could see Louis. I don’t have an appointment with him or anything. Just a gift.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Frances says. “He’s in there now. I’ll just give him a ring.”

Harry nods and steps away from the desk, foot tapping, fingers drumming along the sides of his box.

“Hi, Lou,” Frances says. softly. “Harry Styles is here to see you. Should I send him in?”

Harry gnaws on his bottom lip, watching her expression for some clue as to how this will go down. If Louis turns him away here, at least he’ll know they’re officially done with one another. But he wants the chance to go inside, to see Louis for himself, and say what needs to be said.

Frances puts the phone down. She smiles again. “He’ll see you now.”

“Thank you,” Harry says. He approaches the wooden doors and pushes through. He meets Louis’ gaze immediately when he steps inside. He’s sitting at his desk, coloured by lines of sunlight sliding in through his blinds. His office is massive, but not pretentiously so. Most of the space is necessary, occupied either by bookshelves or a small seating area with a soft, black rug. But a huge portion of the space belongs to the large, dark wooden desk, which seems so vast for all the distance it creates between the two of them.

Harry turns and shuts the door softly behind him.

“I brought something for you,” he says, crossing the hardwood floor. He sets the box down on Louis' desk. “They’re beignets.” He smiles. “They’re perfect with tea or coffee.”

Louis’ lips twitch. He draws the box into his lap, opens it and peeks inside. “They smell great. Thank you.”

Harry feels inappropriately chuffed. They grow quiet again, looking at each other. Harry takes a deep breath. “I’m so sorry.”

Louis doesn’t look away, which Harry is surprisingly grateful for. As unnerving as his gaze is, Harry thinks it would hurt worse if he couldn’t look at him at all.

“I don’t know what I was thinking but I feel awful about it now. This isn’t like me and that’s not an excuse. It’s just the honest truth. I would never want to use someone for sex. Ever. I meant it when I said I couldn’t help it. That I couldn’t resist you. But perhaps I should have. I’m sorry if I hurt you. Really I am.”

Louis shakes his head. “I was the one who got it wrong. It’s fine.”

“But you didn’t. Not entirely,” Harry says. “You’re amazing, Louis. If not for Andy—”

“That probably won’t help,” Louis tells him before he can finish. There’s a small smile on his lips, though and Harry considers it a blessing.

“You said I owed you the truth,” Harry says. “And the truth is that I feel something for you too. I think I’ve made that obvious. But we can't be more than…whatever we are. I'm sorry I wasn't clear about that before.”

Louis looks down at the box in his lap. He slides it onto his desk and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “To be honest, I don’t know what I was thinking either. I realise now that it would put us both in a bad position to be anything more than friends. I spoke too soon without thinking things through and now that I have, I prefer things the way they are now. They’re better this way.”

Harry’s brow creases and he purses his lips. “Meaning…? You _don’t_ want to date me?”

“Right,” Louis says. “And you don’t want to date me either.”

They study each other.

“Right,” Harry repeats. He draws a small breath, lips curling. “Well then, the sex, at least, was amazing. I think you should know that.”

Louis laughs. “Agreed,” he says. “I’m sorry if I was harsh afterwards.”

Harry waves his apology off. “I think I deserved it.”

“I don’t,” Louis says. “I really do blame myself too. I think I misled you in Glasgow. I don’t do one-night-stands.”

Harry nods. “So I’ve learned,” he says, although that information will never be useful to him now. As if to prove it, he says, “Friends?”

Louis looks down at the box on his desk. “You _did_ bring me beignets,” he says. “So, yeah, I suppose so.”

“They’re good,” Harry says. “I’m pretty confident that if you haven’t completely forgiven me, you will after you have one.”

“That good, huh?”

“So good,” Harry says, smiling. Another beat of silence passes between them. Luckily, Louis’ phone beeps right then and he presses the intercom button.

“Yes?”

“Lou, Allen is here for your ten o’clock appointment.”

“Thank you,” Louis says, looking at Harry again.

Harry takes a step back. “See you around,” he says, wiggling his fingers.

Louis smiles again. “Thank you for coming,” he says. His eyes are kind. His smile is soft. Harry notes all those details begrudgingly. He walks away from Louis and resents each step he takes towards the door. He feels as if he’s left something unfinished. He feels like he’s left the stove or the iron on before leaving home. Like he’s forgotten to add yeast to a new recipe. And though he knows all that isn’t true, he feels off-kilter as if it is.

There’s no time for regret or indecision, not with how quickly he reaches the door. He takes hold of the handle and pulls it open and leaves without looking back.

†

On the 24th, he and Andy set out to see Paddy. He lives in Mullingar, Ireland, and though they’ve made the drive to him before, they’re on a tight schedule and can’t afford to lose eight hours on the road. So they catch a flight around noon and arrive in Dublin an hour later. They have lunch there, rent a car, and make the hour’s drive to Paddy.

He has a well-sized home in a residential area, tucked away in a cluster of trees. He grew up here, Paddy or Patrick Noonan, to a family of clergymen and public servants. He met Cassie’s mum while they were both pursuing postgraduate degrees in Scotland. By then, Diane had Cassie and her husband, Cassie’s biological father, had run off. Cassie was three years old and Paddy soon became the only father she had any memory or knowledge of.

He’s so much older now, Harry notes, as he pulls up to the house and hardly recognizes the old man with a walking stick waiting there on the front porch. He’s not yet seventy, last time Harry checked. Andy hurries out of the passenger seat. She climbs the few steps to him and they catch each other in a warm embrace. Harry is a bit slower getting out of the car. He lingers a few feet away from them and steps forward when they separate.

“Good to see you, Pat,” he says. “How are you?”

Paddy reaches out and sets a hand on Harry's shoulder. “Old,” he says with a laugh. “But happy to see you.” He pinches Andy’s cheek. “And you, little Bee. Saw you on the telly just yesterday.”

“You told me,” she says, grinning. There’s an eruption of barking further in the house. Her eyes widen. “Are those my girls?”

She leaves them, pulling the screen door open and dashing inside, in search of Paddy’s two pinchers. Harry looks at Paddy again. “You’re feeling alright?” he asks. “Really?”

Paddy scoffs. “Oh, don’t give me that look. You haven’t seen me in at least a year. Of course I look older. I’ve got this thing,” he says, lifting the walking stick. “But I’m fine. Old but fine. Come on inside.”

Harry huffs a laugh and follows him into the house. They talk for only a few minutes about the dogs and the neighbours and Harry’s family. Then Harry takes a grocery list and heads to the nearby shop alone. He grabs a case of Paddy’s favourite, Guinness, while he’s at it.

Andy is still out back with the dogs when he returns. He puts all the groceries away while Paddy rocks himself in the big, brown leather chair in front of the telly. Harry opens a fresh bottle of beer and gives it to him. He goes out to the car for his and Andy’s bags and puts them upstairs in the spare rooms. He returns to the kitchen and has a beer himself while leaning against the worktop.

“So, what’s next for our superstar, H?” Paddy calls from the living room.

Harry takes a seat on the old, tattered couch beside him. “She’s going to LA next week and she’ll be there for two weeks. She’s going to start recording an album with the other girls. It’s all pretty exciting.”

Paddy shakes his head, taking a sip of his beer. “Never would have seen it coming.”

“No, me neither,” Harry says, bracing his arms atop his knees. He looks toward the TV. There’s a football game on: Derby vs. Ipswich.

“What’s new with you?” Paddy asks.

Harry shrugs. “Nothing. Still running the flower shop. That’s about it.”

“Any women in your life?”

They look at each other for a second that stretches on too long.

Harry takes a deep breath. “Paddy, I'm gay,” he says. He picks at the beer label. “I don’t think you’re old enough to have forgotten.”

Paddy responds with a heavy, exhausted sigh, as if this conversation which _he_ started is now an inconvenience to him. “Just keep thinking you'll change your mind about that one day.”

Harry squeezes the bridge of his nose. “That's not how it works at all,” he says. He wants to be angry. He wants to answer Paddy’s latent ignorance with fierce correction. But all he feels is uncomfortable. He feels small, the way he always has around this man, which is perhaps, why he never visits him. His toes turn inwards, feet bending at the ankles. He keeps his eyes on the beer bottle, pulling at the label. He mumbles, “We’ve talked about this before.”

The old man is silent for a while. Harry watches Andy outside, running around with Rhea and Mell. He reminds himself that this is why he’s here: to allow her time with her grandfather. Not to prove anything about himself. He’s got nothing to prove.

“I'm sorry, H,” Paddy says, quietly.

Harry looks at him. He opens his mouth to tell him it’s alright, even when it isn't.

“No, really,” Paddy says, lifting a hand to silence him. “It's about time I accepted things the way they are. You're a grown man. You make your own decisions. Just like Cass made hers.”

Harry clenches his jaw. He’s not imagining the condescension. It’s there somewhere. He’s apologising without apologising. But he’s also old and grumpy and unfortunately bigoted, even after all these years, and Harry shouldn't have expected any different.

“I just think you two would’ve made a great pair,” Paddy mutters. “She would’ve been here, alive and well—”

“Please stop.” Harry drags a hand down his face. “I didn't come here for this. I'm tired. It's been a long day. I'm going to start on dinner.”

He stands and heads into the kitchen. They don’t talk again until dinner. He makes a simple roast chicken and potatoes and they all eat at the kitchen table by the window with the dogs at their feet. Afterwards, Paddy heads off to bed.

Andy cleans the dishes while Harry tidies up the living room. On a hunch, he pushes his hand down beneath the cushion of Paddy’s leather chair and sure enough, finds a pack of cigarettes tucked away. Cassie discovered each and every one of his hiding spots when she first started smoking. Eventually, she would buy her own packs from the kids at school. But for a while, she’d take one cigarette from every pack Paddy had hidden around the house, in between couch cushions, in the back of cupboards or under the car seat where Diane would never think to look for them.

Harry pockets the cigs, the whole box of them. He reasons that Paddy’s too old to be smoking anyhow.

“I’m going to ring Kendra,” Andy says when she’s finished with the dishes. “And then, probably sleep. See you in the morning.” She presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Sleep well,” Harry says, straightening some old magazines on the coffee table.

He resolves to clean the rest of the house in the morning. He grabs a thick blanket and one of the old albums from the bookshelf and goes out to the back porch, where there’s a wooden swing. He goes back inside for a beer and some matches.

He sits there for a while, his head tilted back and his eyes shut, twirling a cigarette between his fingers. With a resigned sigh, he tucks it between his lips, strikes a match, and lights up. His eyes slip shut again. He pushes the swing back and forth gently. It’s cold out but not enough that it bothers him. Not enough to keep the memories at bay.

†

"I'm literally bloated like a colossal fucking whale and you're talking to me about exercise?"

Cassie was halted in the middle of her room, her eyes like shards of ice. Not the reaction he expected. He doubled back, retraced his steps, and tried for better wording on the next go.

“You said your back was hurting. I read that it helps having strong abdominal muscles to support all the weight on your back,” he said carefully.

“Why don’t you just say I look like a whale?”

Harry stared at her for a long time. “Because that’s not at all what I’m saying? I’m talking about your back pain. Not your weight.”

“I’ve got heat pads for my back, thank you. I’ve also heard massages help with back pain, but you’re not offering me a massage, are you? I can hardly see my toes anymore. None of my favourite jumpers fit anymore and they were all two sizes too big in the first place. I’m a whale. I’m a fucking behemoth. Paddy even made a comment about how much weight I’ve put on. Mum says I should cut back on ice cream. And here you are, Harry fucking Styles, saying it might be a good idea for me to exercise.”

Harry held both hands up and out as if in surrender. “Okay. Forget I said anything. You don’t need to exercise. I don’t exercise. Neither does your mum or Paddy. Even if you were a whale, which you’re not, that’d be fine. Whales are great.”

Cassie snorted garishly. She started shoving her clothes into a drawer. She’d just come back from an overnight stay at the hospital and was unpacking her duffle. Harry came by to visit her with some comic books, some biscuits he’d baked with his nan, and of course, some tips for managing back pain.

“I’m so tired of everyone scrutinising me and making me feel like I’m a child,” Cassie prattled on. “I’m tired of every single one of you. I’m going to run away to fucking Australia and have my baby there and raise my baby by myself and never speak to anyone here again.”

“I really don’t know what’s got into you.” Harry clenched his fist. “But she’s my baby too.”

“Oh, sod off, Harry,” Cassie muttered. “Why don’t you just go? Leave me alone.”

“You’re being such an arse. I hope you know.”

Cassie rolled her eyes. “That’s all I am now anyway. I’ve got a giant arse and hips the size of a submarine.”

“Seriously? Why don't you stop talking about your weight as if that's the problem?” She fell silent and froze in place. “No one’s talking about your weight except for you. You’re just using it as an excuse to be a dickhead. I’m not treating you like a child, but you’re fucking acting like one.”

Cassie’s eyes narrowed until her irises turned black. “Get out.”

“Would you please just talk to me?”

“Get out of my room,” she seethed. “Get out!”

Harry sighed, heavily. “Cassie…”

“Harry, get out!” she yelled and then suddenly, Diane was throwing the bedroom door open. Her face was wrinkled with concern.

“H?” She looked at Harry and then at Cassie. “Cass? What’s all this yelling?”

Harry shook his head. “Ask her,” he said and slipped past Diane, out the door, down the steps, and back to his own home. He even took his biscuits with him.

They hardly fought. They had enough enemies, whether it be the wankers at school or rival bands or sometimes their own parents, that there wasn’t enough aggression to spare for each other. Even if Cassie irritated him, he was usually over it within the next minute. The same was true for her.

He could count on two hands the amount of times this had happened and it wasn’t any easier to bear now than it had been then.

Their heads were in the same place, at least. It was dark when he heard the first tap on the window, followed by another, and then another. He got out of bed, wide awake because he hadn’t been sleeping in the first place. He pushed the drapes aside and saw Cassie standing down below, wearing Paddy’s old, leather jacket. She waved. He waved back and then he went to find his shoes and his coat.

It was November and chilly out, but not as bad as the day prior. He met her around the back of his house and they walked to the park just nearby in silence. Cassie climbed onto the tire swing with some difficulty. Harry gave her a push.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” she said, staring at the ground. “I didn’t mean what I said. I’m not tired of you. And I won’t run away with the baby. At least, not without telling you.”

Harry took a seat on the wood chips coating the playground floor, propping his arms atop his knees. “What happened?”

“A girl gave me her number,” Cassie said, smiling. “She was at the hospital, being treated for an infection or something. We got to talking. She was older. She said I was cute and that I should come by her house sometime. And then she gave me her number. That’s never happened before. A girl flirting with me around here. And so I thought, how nice that’d be to date a girl here, to bring a girl home.

“And on the way back from the hospital, on the radio, they were talking about some gay rights protest in Brighton and Paddy said some things, the usual things, and I realized that it’s never going to happen for me. Having a supportive family? That’s never going to happen.”

She looked away, bottom lip poking out a bit, cheeks flushed from the cold and perhaps from the threat of tears. She shrugged.

“You were the first person I saw when I got back and I lashed out and I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Harry said. “I understand.”

Cassie let her feet swing back and forth. She twisted the tire swings’ chains around themselves and then released them, spinning herself around.

“I’m not raising this baby here if I can help it. I can’t be around them anymore. They’re all hypocrites, my whole family. They call themselves righteous until a fucking queer walks by and then they’re only human. They don't mean to be hateful. They just can’t help it.” She curled her fists tight around the chains. Her knuckles turned bone white. “I'm so fucking sick of all of them, Harry. I can't wait to get so far from here they forget I existed. I’m just waiting for the canon to sound and then I'm off."

“We’ll both get out of here,” Harry said. “We’ll take the baby and run.”

Cassie smiled. “You don’t have to run anywhere. Your family is good. If you told your parents, they'd support you, I know it. So would Gem. The only reason you haven’t told them by now is me.”

“Hey—”

Cassie shook her head. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Even if I could come out to them, I couldn’t come out to anyone else around here,” Harry said. “I wouldn’t want to be out around here. I’m not ready to do that yet. And I hate it here just as much as you. When we have a chance, we’ll leave and we’ll be happier then. But I’m fine the way things are now.”

“I don’t want a fake boyfriend anymore,” Cassie said.

Harry’s brows furrowed. “Are you breaking up with me?”

Cassie laughed tearfully. “Not yet but I want to,” she said. “I want a girlfriend, H. I want to just be who I am.”

“You will one day,” Harry said. “One day someday soon, I promise. You’ll have someone who loves you.”

Cassie rested her head against the chain. “Would you run away with me? Really?”

“Absolutely,” Harry said. “We could find a big house somewhere in Australia. For me, you, and Andy, and my husband and your wife.”

Cassie giggled. “And a dog.”

“And a cat,” Harry said.

“That sounds perfect.”

†

Harry removes the cigarette from his mouth quickly when Andy appears at the door. He outs the flame on the wooden armrest of the swing and sets it in the ashtray Paddy keeps there and places the ashtray on the ground. He looks at Andy, sheepishly.

“Sorry,” he says, raking his fingers through his hair.

She shakes her head, giving him a small smile. “It’s alright.” She comes closer and takes a seat beside him, the swing creaking with her added weight. “Mercy smokes too.”

Harry frowns. “That’s awful,” he says, flicking a bit of ash off the armrest. “She’s so young.”

“Didn’t you say you were about the same age when you started?”

Harry thinks about it. “Maybe? But I wouldn’t recommend the same for anyone else.”

“I know you only smoke when you’re stressed or when you’re sad,” Andy says, staring at him. Her eyes are so big and so knowing. Sometimes he hates that. He hates that she gets it from him and whenever she looks at him, he understands what people mean about the intensity of his own gaze. He wonders if, like himself, she doesn’t mean to stare at others the way she does.

She looks at the photo album in his lap. “Which album is that?”

Harry lifts it and studies the cover. “This one’s from 1995 to 2001,” he says, meaning it’s the last of the photos Cassie’s mum collected of her. He flips to the first page and taps one of the photos there. “We were about twelve here. Cassie had braces and that’s why she’s not smiling.”

Andy laughs. “I think I’ve seen that one.” She points to another photo. “And that one.”

They were in a boat in the photo, wearing life jackets. The combination of unnaturally hot sunrays and humid air had turned Cassie’s hair into a round bush. Harry can’t remember the day in detail but he’s sure he hadn’t stopped laughing.

They flip through the majority of the album, pausing on some pages for a long while and breezing past others. Harry knows all of the pictures well. Some are familiar to Andy too. She asks questions here and there. The earlier years from 1995 to 1999 are bright and fun. Around 2000, they both usually grow sad. He closes the album on the page before they get there.

They look out towards Paddy’s massive garden, lined by trees. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. The moon is high in the sky, meaning it’s much later than Harry realised. He dozed off for a while after his first cigarette before he started on another.

Andy crosses her legs but Harry lets his toes brush the ground to push the swing slowly.

“So, what’s wrong?”

When Harry looks, Andy is back to looking at him with discerning eyes.

“I’m fine,” he says, going for a smile.

“No, you’re not,” she says immediately. “You’ve been sad lately and I don’t think it’s just about me leaving or about my mum. I think you’re lonely.”

Harry looks down at the photo album, brushing his palm across it. “I am lonely.”

Her eyes widen a bit, as if she hadn’t expected the honesty. He doesn’t like what that says about him. She takes his hand in hers and squeezes gently.

“I think it might be time to go on Match.com,” Harry says with a soft laugh. “Or get a pet.”

“Maybe you should,” Andy says, smiling. “I think a pet would be nice, at least. You have more room now without me there.”

“I just might,” he says, lifting his arm. Andy scoots close and curls herself against his side. He drops his arm over her shoulders. “It technically is about you and your mum. If you were both with me all the time, I wouldn’t be lonely. But that’s not to make you feel bad.”

It isn’t true. He knows why he’s lonely and neither Cassie or Andy would be able to fix that. Right now, it feels like there’s only one person, one man, and he’s currently in London.

“Do you ever go a day without missing her?” Andy asks quietly. “Without thinking of her?”

“No,” Harry says. “And I think I’d be terrified if that happened. If I felt like I was forgetting her. Everything reminds me of her. You, especially. But flowers sometimes too, or a tree. A bus passing by. A song. A burger.”

They laugh. Harry rests his cheek against the top of her head.

“I see her in everything,” he says quietly. “And that’s so like your mum. To not let herself be forgotten so easily.”

“You always make her sound incredible.”

She was. Harry smiles. “I don’t even do her justice.”

†

**MARCH 2017**

The following week comes much too quickly. He and Niall drive to London-Heathrow to see Andy off and miraculously, he doesn’t cry while he waves goodbye to her at the gate. He and Niall go for pizza afterwards and he doesn’t cry then either. Not even when he gets home. He doesn’t cry as he stuffs a few of his things into a duffle and climbs into his car. Or when he’s well on his way to his parents’ home. Or even when his mum greets him at the door.

He goes to his childhood bedroom, climbs into his old bed and lies there for a long while, watching the fading ochre sunlight stream in across the floorboards. He feels young and foolish. He feels old and worn out. Too many thoughts overwhelm him. Too many problems he can’t fix.

That’s when it happens and he can’t say that Andy is the sole cause.

He cries himself into a fretful sleep because adults are allowed to do so every now and then, and no one is here to see him. He pulls his duvet up to his chin and his eyelids grow too heavy to keep them open.

†

“Why does anything have to be wrong with me?” Harry wonders. “Why can’t I just decide that I’d like to spontaneously visit my family?”

Gemma crosses her arms. “Do I look daft to you? Do I look like I was born yesterday?”

“That would be something worth talking about,” Harry says, smiling. He lifts a spoonful of cereal to his mouth. She doesn’t stop staring at him.

“Are you having such a hard time dealing with Andy going away? Is that really it?”

Harry sets his spoon down, causing it to clatter against the ceramic bowl. “I’m fine. I’m tired. That’s all. I needed a break. I don’t understand. If mum’s not questioning me, why are you?”

“Mum’s questioning _me_ , that’s why. She’s asking _me_ as if I know what’s wrong with you and I don’t. But I think there’s more to it than what you’re telling me.”

Harry stands and rinses his dish in the sink. “I’m going to take a nap.”

“It’s ten in the morning.”

“Which leaves plenty of time for my nap.”

†

Coming home might not have been his best plan, seeing how they all stare at him as if he’s seconds away from spontaneously combusting. Even the cats stare at him. He can’t blame them. Whether he’s surrounded by his family or alone in his old room, he feels like screaming ceaselessly into a pillow.

But coming home is still better than being in the flat. At least here, when his thoughts feel like too much, he has his dad, his mum, or one of the cats to bring him back to earth. He feels centred when Gemma cuddles up next to him after dinner as they’re watching a film. When she’s left for her own home and his mum has retired to bed, he and his dad stay up late, chatting about football and some new properties he’s investing in and some story on the news about a monkey that escaped the zoo.

He waits until his dad goes to sleep and has a cigarette in the back garden while scrolling through Twitter. He stole the whole pack from Paddy, considering it retribution for their talk. When he’s finished with it, he’ll quit again. He swears to himself. As for other harmful behaviours, he thinks he should delete his Twitter too. He’s been tempted. All he ever does is mope when he’s on there these days. Andy seems to be having a blast in LA. She rings him often and sends him pictures, so he can’t complain. But of course, there’s Louis, who never has anything too personal to share on Twitter, but the pictures of him are testing enough.

†

Harry sleeps often while he’s home. He wakes in the morning, helps with what chores he can, and then he goes back to bed and stays there all day, watching TV or counting the cracks in the ceilings or the cobwebs in the corners.

Troye has managed to mind the shop for the past two days but with the weekend approaching, Harry would feel awful leaving him to deal with the increase of customers. He considers just closing things down for the next few days. He could have Troye put up a sign that says ‘gone on holiday’ and then maybe he could actually go away. Maybe he could go back to Glasgow and stay there for a little while, spend his day at the park before a concert every night. He’d love that.

It’s about noon on Friday when his mum knocks softly on his bedroom door and steps inside.

“Hi,” he says, turning to face her.

She smiles and draws closer, taking a seat on the edge of his bed. She sets a hand on his arm.

“You need to go home.”

“I am home,” Harry says easily, after a beat of silence.

His mum gives him a steady look. “You haven’t lived here for over a decade,” she says. “You have to go back and see to the shop. You have to go back and find your footing again. Whatever it is that's bothering you, you can't just run away from it. You know that.”

Harry shakes his head. “It’s not that simple,” he says. She waits for him to go on. “It’s not just one thing. It’s my life in general that’s the problem.”

“Why all of the sudden is your life a problem?” she asks, her brows creasing. “You have a good life.”

Harry looks away towards the window, trying to get his wording in order. He drags his hand across his eyes and looks at her again. “I met someone.”

“You must have really liked him if he’s got you like this.”

“I did. I still do. But I can't be with him for reasons. And you know how one thing goes wonky and then all of the sudden, everything else seems out of place too? It's like that. Everything’s out of place right now. And everyone’s moving on and leaving me and figuring out their lives. Even Andy. And then there’s me, doing absolutely nothing with my time, except running the shop and making stupid decisions.”

“You raised her, Harry. That girl taking over the world right now, singing her heart out. You raised her. How have you done nothing with your time? How is that not an accomplishment?”

She’s right. She always has a way of looking at situations that he’s combed through obsessively and finding a brighter side to it. It’s a gift. His mother is a gift, in and of herself.

Immediately after Cassie was gone, he refused to leave Andy. He stopped playing guitar because there was no time and it reminded him too much of her. He stopped seeing his friends from university, like Niall and Liam who he’d met his first year, because he stopped attending university too. He took a gap year and lost contact with them for a while. At the end of that year, he considered even taking another year off or perhaps giving up on uni all together.

He remembers his mum coming to him, much like she was now and telling him plainly, “You need to go back to school.”

She’d cited reasons why denying himself an education wouldn’t solve anything. With no prospect of a job at the time, he wouldn’t have been able to support her if he ever decided to move out. Though his parents provided for him and Andy almost entirely, he wanted someday for that to change. His mum got him to see that. She got him to pack his things, to kiss Andy goodbye, and go back to school the following term.

Their eyes meet and perhaps she remembers too.

“I love you, darling,” she says. “I’m very happy having you here. But you have to go back home.”

Harry sits upright. He sighs. “What if I refuse?”

His mum laughs. “We’ll have to just carry you out of here, your dad and me. I’d like to avoid using force if possible.”

Harry manages a smile. “I’ll leave after dinner.”

“Stay the night. Leave in the morning,” she says, standing. “We’ll have wine and play Scrabble. How’s that?”

He gives her a thumbs-up as she leaves, pulling his door shut, and then he climbs out of bed. With a sweeping glance around the room, he begins collecting his things.

†

His life is still in ruins but he’s perhaps not so hopeless about bringing it into order. He raised Andy and helped her climb to success. He’s lived a good life full of good people. He loves and is loved. Those are accomplishments to be proud of, even amidst the things he considers failures, like losing his best friend and falling for the one man he swore not to.

He’s still got things to be proud of.

He heads back to Northampton the next morning and gets there in time to open up the shop. He and Troye make scones and snickerdoodles. They start up the record player. Troye weaves him a flower crown from the remains of an old bouquet and Harry wears it proudly for the rest of the day.

They close up shop at five. Harry agrees to go for drinks with Troy and his friends the following day. But tonight, he wants to be alone. He wants to cook a simple dinner, have a hot shower, and sleep long and well. He runs to the shop for groceries and starts back home.

On a pure whim, he pulls up beside the local pet shop and sits there in his car, contemplating. He’ll just have a look. He plucks the keys from the ignition and steps out. His mind is on a kitten. If he falls in love with one, he might just take them home. He steps into the shop and kindly declines an employee’s offer for assistance. He walks past the cages with kittens and cats inside. Some are wrapped around each other, sleeping. Some are awake with their eyes on him. They’re all adorable. He keeps walking until he reaches the dog cages and starts to turn back, which is when he spots her.

He doesn’t know much about dogs but he doesn’t have to. There’s a little sign that states the puppy staring back at him is an Australian Shepherd. The sign also tells him that the puppy is friendly, smart, and loyal. That she’ll grow big. That she’ll live long.

He stares at her. She stares at him.

He came here for a cat. He wants a cat.

“Excuse me,” he says to the shop attendant. He smiles brightly. “I’d like her, please.”

He’s meant to be making sensible decisions, yes. But remarkably, this feels like one of them. On his way home, the puppy lying across his lap, looks up at him. Harry laughs to himself.

“How about Belle?” he says, running his hand through her gossamer fur. “I like that one.”

She sets her head down with a soft, happy sound.

He laughs again. For the first time in the last few weeks, it feels genuine. “I’ll take that as ‘yes’.”


	5. Chapter 5

**AUGUST 2017**

Worker bees only live around six weeks during the summer. They work ceaselessly and without reprieve and inevitably, their little hearts simply give out. Harry has this dream about Andy the night she comes back from her fifth stay in Stockholm. He dreams of her working, working, working until her voice is broken and her heart is worn and the inevitable happens. It's more correct to call it a nightmare.

He goes to her room to check on her, but she's not there. Tapping down on an irrational burst of panic, he steps into the living room and finds her curled up on the couch with Belle tucked beneath her arm. She's got plasters around her thumb and forefinger from playing without a pick. The faint dark circles beneath her eyes are alarming but expected for a musician. It’s neverending work crafting music, but she’s a bee determined to do it.

He sits down on the arm of the couch and nudges her foot. Unsurprisingly, she's dead to the world, which isn’t the best expression for him to use in his state of mind. He tries to wake her again, tickling the bottom of her foot this time too.

She kicks reflexively and makes a whiny, nasally sound that might’ve come from Belle. Her nose and brows wrinkle when she turns her head and sees him there. “What are you doing?” she groans, pushing her face beneath a throw pillow. “Why are you like this?”

Harry sinks onto the couch into the tiny bit of space behind her legs. He's always liked squeezing himself where he doesn't fit like a cat. “Why don't you go to bed?”

“I’ll go in another hour.”

“It's 7 AM.”

“It's fine,” she says. “I plan to sleep ‘til 7 PM.”

“I guess you technically could,” Harry says after he's considered it. Louis gave the girls the next two weeks to themselves with no communication from the label and no expectations except to rest. Afterwards, they're being jetted again to LA, though thankfully, this time, Harry gets to join her.

The band’s first single is set to release on the 22nd and he wants to be there for that moment. She wants him to be there too. Travelling with her since this all began has been long overdue.

She's fallen back to sleep in the two seconds they aren’t talking. “Hey,” he says, tickling her foot again. She yanks the throw pillow from beneath her head and tosses it his way. She misses, obviously, too sleepy to be coordinated. Belle wakes with a curious mewl and looks right at him.

“See? We’re both tired of you,” Andy says.

Harry rubs Belle’s fuzzy head. “Too bad I'm not going anywhere,” he says in an animated voice reserved for babies.

Andy’s eyes have slipped shut again. Harry rests his chin on her shoulder and watches her for a moment. She looks so young like this. If he stares long enough, he can trick himself into thinking she's not a rockstar yet at all. He brushes the fine curls at her temples away from her eyes.

“Why are you so clingy this morning?”

“I'm always clingy,” he says. “And I had a bad dream.”

Andy smacks her lips together a few times and exhales a soft breath. “What about?”

“Just silly things,” he says. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Want to know what I was dreaming about?”

“Now I do.”

“Ringo Starr was at one of our concerts and you were having such a meltdown, I had to come down off the stage to console you. It was very embarrassing.”

Harry pouts. He’d hope that if he did have a meltdown, it was internal. He thinks he knows how to keep himself contained. “That's much better than my dream, at least.” He sits upright. “Don't sleep until 7 PM on this couch. You know you’ll regret it.”

He stands and straightens the blanket on top of her body.

“Good night,” she mumbles.

“You mean, good morning?”

“No,” she says. “I mean goodnight because the next time we talk, it'll be night time again.”

Harry laughs. “Right,” he says. “Good night then.”

Belle hops down from the couch after him and he scoops her up, needing both of his arms to cradle her comfortably these days. He presses a kiss to her soft belly and sets her down. Her feet tap musically on the floor behind him on his way into the kitchen. She walks circles around his legs a few times before slumping down in a growing patch of sunlight by the cooker.

They’ve come a long way, him and his pup. In the last five months, he’s regretted bringing her home at least ten times. When she was smaller and the flat smelled perpetually of hidden piles of shit, he threatened to take her back, to admit he’d been impulsive and dazed by her sweet puppy face.

But there are the nights when he feels most lonely, when Belle comes to him and curls up against his side. The flat doesn't feel so hollow as of late. She knows when to place her paws against his chest with a chew toy in her mouth. She knows it forces him to get up and take her for a walk or sit outside in his tiny garden and play fetch. She’s wild and rambunctious and always exactly what he needs.

The months have passed so quickly with her at his side but keeping busy with work has helped too. The warmer season brought an increase of patrons and events to provide arrangements for. He needed to hire temporary help when the McCreary’s wedding came around and declined an opportunity to work the Bowen’s massive eighteen-table wedding. He wore himself out every day of every week only to come up to his flat and tire himself further chasing Belle. Day after day of the summer flew by, and before he realised, July was coming to an end, and Andy was coming home.

He opens the small window above the sink, and a cool, breeze coasts into the kitchen. Following a week-long heat wave, he has to stand there for a while and enjoy it and let the air tease his skin and the ends of his hair. He drinks his tea there, brushing his foot across Belle’s hind leg.

“I change my mind.”

Harry turns to find Andy shuffling into the kitchen, headed for the fridge.

“You completely ruined my plans,” she says. “I can't get back to sleep.”

Harry places his mug down and leans into the counter.

“Should we make breakfast then?”

Andy, who’s already got a roll of ham in her mouth, says, “I think we probably should.”

“Get the eggs,” Harry says, pulling a frying pan from the cupboard beneath the sink. “And the bacon.”

He whips up a quick meal with toast and eat, sitting on the kitchen floor with Belle between them. Andy rambles about the band’s appearance on ‘Good Morning America’ in three weeks and how the girls have already talked about going on holiday together before Christmas.

“We’d be back by the 25th,” she says. “But since Christmas Eve is a Sunday, we’d have the rental house until then. It goes from Saturday to Sunday, week by week. So we might as well stay Christmas Eve.”

“Mum’s not going to like that,” Harry says, shaking his head. He doesn't care for the plan much either.

“Yeah, but you could talk to her,” Andy says. “It's really important that I go. It'd be a bonding experience with the other girls.”

“A bonding experience,” he repeats with a small laugh. He mops up some bacon grease with his toast and sticks it in his mouth. He chases it all down with a sip of tea. “If you actually end up going, I’ll talk to her.”

Andy smiles triumphantly. “Thank you.”

Harry feeds his last piece of bacon to Belle. “Are you coming downstairs with me?” he asks. “I’ll pay you like old times.”

Andy wrinkles her nose. “I’ll come down after I take a shower, but I don't want to be paid for it.”

“Suit yourself,” Harry says.

When she was younger, the prospect of getting her own pay cheque was new and exciting. Her current pay must put any offers from him to shame. If he thinks too hard about his daughter making more money than him in the past five months than the shop makes in a year, his mood ventures south.

She stands and takes his empty plate, stacks it atop her own and puts them both in the sink. “I’ll be down around 10.” She turns on the tap.

“Alright,” he says. “Feed Belle for me, yeah?”

“Will do.”

“And bring her down with you too.”

Andy huffs. “Do you make your guests do everything?” she mutters.

“What's that?” Harry tilts his ear toward her. “Can't hear you over all that whining.”

He dips his hand into the water rushing from the tap and flicks his fingers at her. She cups her hand beneath the water, cocks it back and whips around to retaliate. All the excitement has Belle on all fours, head swinging side to side, tail cutting the air.

“Don’t,” Harry says. Andy freezes. He holds his hand up and begins to back away. “Take the high road.”

Andy snorts. “The high road is for saints,” she says and slings the water at him.

That’s a line from one of Cassie’s songs. ‘High’, she’d titled it.

He squawks like a disgruntled bird and flees, yelling, “Don’t use your mum against me.”

 _The high road is for saints,_ the song goes. _And all we know is being sinners._

It’s Wednesday, the second of August, which means the shop won’t be too busy, especially not so early in the morning. Andy comes down around 10, dressed in striped shorts and a T-shirt. She finds a spare apron in the back and ties it on. She’s brought the record player and Belle, who she lets into the garden.

“We should make oatmeal raisin biscuits,” she says, sorting through a stack of old records.

Harry inspects the end of a rose between his fingers. “After lunch, maybe. I’ve got to get this one ready by the time Troye comes in.”

“For delivery?” Andy asks.

Harry hums an affirmative sound.

Andy sets the Pink Floyd album in her hands down. “I could make the delivery.”

Harry focuses adamantly on his bouquet. “You only just got your licence,” he says. “There’ll be too much traffic on the road. I’d rather Troye did it.”

“I can handle traffic. I’m a good driver.”

“Didn’t say you weren’t,” Harry replies. He clips the end of the rose. Her eyes are on him still. He can feel them burning a hole through his temple. He asks, without looking at her, “Could you get me three stems of chrysanthemum?”

She slips down off the stool, heads into the back, and returns with the chrysanthemum. “I have to practise driving. I don’t get the chance to do it when I’m in London. All of the other girls can drive really well. Rose and Kendra even have cars. I want one too, but I’ve never even driven on my own.”

“We’ll go driving this weekend. How’s that?”

“On my _own_ ,” Andy repeats.

Harry’s skin itches. He clips another rose, dunks it into the vase and lifts a third.

“I get it why you’re uncomfortable with the idea,” she says. “But eventually, I’ll have to drive by myself.”

“Really?” Harry says with a snort. “You live in London. You and the other girls have drivers. When you’re here, everything’s within walking distance. When would you need to drive by yourself?”

“That’s not the point.”

Harry sighs heavily. “Were you waiting for the right time to bring this up? Because I don’t think it’s now. I have a lot to do.”

She glares at him for another second longer. “Forget I said anything.”

She gets down off the stool again and disappears into the back. Seconds later, the record player starts up. She’s put on Pink Floyd, the volume turned up a decibel too loud. Harry sets his shears down. He rolls his neck side to side and squeezes his eyes shut.

There goes his otherwise happy morning. Andy can hold grudges for as long as her mum, though Cassie was never very good at holding one against him. After hours without speaking to him or speaking as little as possible, Andy might move past the problem on her own or Harry might cave and make amends.

He can’t do that with this one. He can’t say sorry because he isn’t. She likes to push, his daughter. She likes to prod at his bruises to see if they’re still sore. Perhaps that’s rather morbid but true. She has no reason to drive on her own and no place to go, and yet she’d fight for the right anyhow, knowing it’s the one thing that makes him most uncomfortable.

It is a right, though. She’s seventeen, living on her own, working for herself. Logically, she’ll buy her own car one day whether he wants her to or not, and she’ll drive wherever she pleases. Harry is ridiculous if he thinks he can stop her.

But that day hasn’t come yet, and until it does, he’s not going to be guilted into passing her his car keys. He doesn’t have to prove that he trusts her on the road. It’s the rest of the world he doesn’t trust. He doesn’t need her to prove she’s a good driver. Cassie was a good driver too.

Troye comes in within the next twenty minutes, much to Harry’s relief. He’s intuitive as always and reads the tension as soon as he steps behind the worktop. He spots Andy in the back and waves.

Harry assumes she waves back.

“Literally could cut the tension in here with a chainsaw,” Troye murmurs, heading into the back. Harry can hear them speaking, though their voices are muffled. They’re closer in age, Troye being twenty-two. Harry imagines he might side with her, though that won’t help her cause. Troye returns, tying his apron on, and stands beside Harry quietly.

“Did she call me overbearing?” Harry asks, not loud enough for her to hear.

“Don’t think that’s the exact word she used.”

“Was it Mega Bitch?” Harry wonders.

Troye laughs. “Wrong again.”

“I need fresh air. I’ll make the deliveries today,” Harry says. “You’ve got things covered here, yeah?”

“I can manage,” Troye says.

Harry steps into the back, where Andy is sitting on the floor by an orchid, her mobile in her hands. He removes his apron and hangs it up. “Do you want me to grab you something for lunch while I’m out?”

She shrugs.

Harry rolls his eyes up and around his sockets. “I’ll get you a burger.”

He gets his keys, stocks the Jeep with his bouquets, and leaves. The drive around Northampton helps him clear his head. He feels a bit like a dick by the time he’s finished his last delivery. Still as stubborn on the issue as ever, but not proud of the way he handled it, by ignoring her and silencing her. Fathers should never do that to their daughters. The men they encounter in the world will attempt to do it enough.

He returns with burgers for the two of them, minus the one he ate quickly in the car. Andy is up front with Troye, wearing a flower crown and weaving another. For a second, Harry pictures her at five. Fine curly hair and rosy cheeks. She’d sit right on the worktop, her legs dangling, a ukulele in her hands. Harry would weave her crowns and necklaces made of sunflowers and daisies and violets. Sometimes he’d tuck a lily behind her ear. She was a sight for sore eyes, the way she giggled and smiled with one missing front tooth. Anyone would light up when they saw her. Harry was the brightest of them all.

“Made one for you too,” Troye says, handing Harry a crown.

Andy made it, he means, although she doesn’t look up.

“It’s lovely. Thank you,” Harry says to her, setting the flowers atop his head.

After a second, she says, “You’re welcome.”

Harry gets his apron. “Lunch is there whenever you’re both ready.”

“I’m starving,” Troye says. “Thank you.” He heads into the back and perhaps he is starving or perhaps he's giving them a moment to talk. Harry sends him a grateful smile regardless.

He stands beside Andy, hip against the worktop, arms crossed. “Sorry if I was mean.”

“You _were_ mean,” she says.

“I was and I’m sorry.”

“For being mean but not for being stubborn?” she asks. “Or treating me like a kid?”

“We can talk more about it later. I’ll hear you out, I promise, but not right now. Could we just get through the rest of the day, please?”

Andy purses her lips and doesn't respond.

“Want to make oatmeal raisin biscuits?” Harry asks.

With a sigh, she says, “If you insist…”

He wraps both arms around her shoulders and kisses her forehead. He shifts all his weight onto her because it’s annoying and might just make her laugh. “I love you,” he says. “So, so much.”

She groans. “Get off, please.”

“I can’t. I’m unable to support my weight. My heart’s too heavy with love for you.”

“You’re so annoying,” Andy says, pushing futilely at him. She surrenders her first burst of laugher. “I’m going to fall.”

“Tell me you love me,” Harry says.

Andy shoves at his chest. “You’re literally like a gorilla.”

“But you love me,” Harry says. “We’re both going to fall and die if you don’t say it.”

“I love you. Please go away.”

Harry stands up straight. “Wasn’t hard at all, was it?”

Andy rights her flower crown. “You’re a five-year-old.”

Harry shrugs. He’s heard worse.

They don't talk about it later. They make oatmeal raisin biscuits, eat a quarter of them, and sell the rest. Andy takes Belle for a walk, and when she comes back, she sweeps and cleans the shop windows. They keep busy enough that by the end of the day, she’s either forgotten or is too tired to bring it up again.

That was Harry’s plan all along.

†

Two days before his flight, he drives to his sister’s home in Birmingham with Belle and Sam the bearded dragon. He’s assumed full ownership of their reptile since Andy started travelling. For the next two weeks, Gemma’s agreed to look after both pets. She’s peering into Sam’s cage with an inquisitive twist to her mouth. “I’m honestly quite positive that I’ll end up killing this thing.”

“I have faith in you,” Harry says. “All he needs is sunlight and food.”

“I just hope Alfie doesn’t get to him.”

Harry looks over at the toddler currently climbing atop Belle’s back, though he's slightly bigger than her.

“Or her,” Gemma adds. “He’s very strong for a boy so small.”

Belle, at least, doesn’t seem bothered, spreading herself out on Gemma’s floor, yawning even.

“I think they’ll both survive,” Harry says. “I trust you. Don’t kill my dog. I only just got her.”

“I’ll do my best,” Gemma says, arms opening for a hug.

Harry steps forward and squeezes her as tightly as she squeezes him. “I wish you were coming too,” he says quietly.

“Same here. Next time, we’ll all go,” she says. “Have fun. Say hi to Liam for me.”

“I will,” he says. “I should get going. Lots of packing to finish up.”

He sneaks up behind Alfie on his way to the door and presses a kiss to his cheek. He kisses Belle too right between her perked ears and she looks at him curiously.

“I’ll be back soon,” he tells her. As he starts to the door, she follows him. Gemma takes hold of her collar and she starts to yap and complain, paws scraping the hardwood floors.

“This is heartbreaking,” Harry confesses.

“Oh, you'll be fine,” Gemma says. “So will she.”

Harry presses his hands over his ears when Belle starts whining and steps through the door. “Bye,” he calls to his sister and heads swiftly to his car.

†

He’s never been more excited to see Liam. After surviving an eleven-hour red-eye from London and then stumbling through the dreary, disorganised depths of LAX, he throws himself into Liam’s arms.

“Get me out of here,” he says.

Liam laughs, patting his back. “I’m glad you made it.”

“Just barely,” Harry says, lifting his duffle from the ground. Liam takes it for him, along with the rest of his bags, and tosses them into the boot. They climb into his sleek little sports car, and he takes off, manoeuvring past taxi cabs and buses parked at ‘Arrivals’.

“Am I taking you to the hotel first?” Liam asks. “Or for lunch?”

“Lunch is tempting, but I need to change my clothes.” Harry pushes his shades onto his face. “The weatherman said it’d be a cool day.”

“And you believed him?”

“Like a fool,” Harry says.

“What if we grabbed burgers and ate them at the hotel?”

Harry’s stomach grumbling obnoxiously answers the question for him. “Much better idea.”

Liam takes West Century Blvd from the airport all the way up to the In N’ Out Burger in Hollywood. The queue is ridiculous, either inside or in the drive-thru. But now that Harry’s set his mind on a greasy burger and ‘animal-style fries’, he’s determined to stick it out. They queue up in the drive-thru with the AC and the music cranked, and Harry takes that time to fill Liam in on his vast itinerary.

“Maybe hiking at Griffith Park if there’s time,” he says, scrolling through the list he compiled on his phone. “We said we’d do that the last time we were here. I’d like to check out the Space Center too. The beach, at least once. Oh, we should go to that ice cream place. Salt & Straw, isn’t it? I love it there. The casino might be fun too. The zoo. What was that bar called—? The one that serves breakfast late at night?”

“Nighthawk,” Liam says tiredly. “Is that it? Or should we just tour LA block by block?”

“Not a bad idea,” Harry says. “I’m not even halfway through my list yet.”

Liam looks as if he’s died on the spot, his eyes listless, mouth lax. He twists around in his seat. “Is it too late to reverse and just drop you off at the hotel?”

“You’re an awful tour guide,” Harry says. “So inhospitable.”

Liam squeezes the steering wheel and shakes himself back and forth. “Why aren't these bloody cars moving?”

“You know, it's really insulting that everyone calls me dramatic,” Harry says, eyes returning to his phone. He gives his shades an upward push with his forefinger. “Now let me finish my list.”

Liam survives and Harry rambles in his scatterbrained way about all his plans. Being in LA excites him to the point of talking ceaselessly. Being away from London and being here with his best mate and his daughter have him reeling. He has to shut up, when they’ve got their burgers and chips and his stomach has begun to complain again.

They eat one burger each in the car park and save the other for the hotel. Liam pulls back onto the road, and they head to the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills. In the lobby, a uniformed valet takes Harry’s bags while he checks in. Liam slurps on his Coke beside him. Harry sees him tilt his head forward, gazing over the top of his shades.

“Look who it is.”

Harry searches for his licence in his wallet. “Is it Andy?” he asks. “I told her we were here.”

“Not Andy,” Liam says.

Harry slides his licence across the marble top towards the receptionist and smiles. He turns to scan the lobby and his smile falters. Quickly, he turns back, squeezing his wallet between his palms.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

“What?” Liam says. “Not going to say hi?”

“I’d rather not,” Harry says, but he doesn’t think he can help it. The lobby is huge but open with nowhere to hide and not enough people to block his view. When he turns again, they’ll see each other.

“Thank you, Mr Styles,” the receptionist says. “Here’s two room keys for you. Information on our cafe, gym and pool is included in the brochure. If you have any questions at any time, we’d be happy to help. Enjoy your stay!”

“Thank you,” Harry says. He takes the key cards and lifts the strap of his duffle and turns slowly. He scans the lobby quickly and doesn’t see him again. He won’t stand here searching for him either. He counts his small blessing and hurries toward the lifts.

“What’s wrong with you?” Liam asks.

“I’m fine —”

And then Harry turns the corner, and there he is, standing at the lifts.

Louis’ head is down, eyes focused on the phone in his hand. His sunglasses are propped atop his head. He’s wearing crisp white trousers and a soft blue shirt and looks as he usually does — unfairly beautiful.

On cue, he glances upward and just like Harry, comes to a pause.

Harry knew that being in LA as the band approached their single debut might mean being in LA with Louis. As their producer, Louis would want to be here for this, and Harry thought he’d come prepared.

Louis smiles warmly. “Hi.”

Harry isn’t prepared.

“Hi,” he replies.

“It’s been a while.”

That’s an understatement.

The last few months have proved that he and Louis saw so much of each other initially because they’d wanted it to happen. Perhaps they willed the universe to allow them all those ‘accidental’ collisions, like seeing Louis at a pub in London or running into him at 28 Productions. Winding up with him at a pub in Glasgow or showing up on his step a few days after New Year’s. Perhaps in some cosmic way, that had all come about because they’d wanted it too. Maybe since then, between February and August, he’s seen Louis sparingly and without conversation because that’s what he needed and wanted.

The irony of it all is that it hasn’t helped. They say time heals all wounds, but it’s been months and he’s still bleeding. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to behave. He offered Louis friendship the last time they spoke, but this isn’t how he feels with friends. Never so young or so vulnerable.

He does what has worked moderately well for the past thirty years. He wings it.

“I thought you’d fled the country or something,” he says.

Louis smiles. (Thank God.) “Technically, we both have now.”

“Good point.” Harry glances behind himself, and Liam steps a bit closer. “You remember my friend, Liam?”

“I do,” Louis says as they shake hands. “Good to see you again, mate.”

“Same,” Liam says with a cordial smile.

Harry feels Louis’ eyes on him. The awkwardness is literally coating the walls like mould. One of the lifts opens and a small cluster of people step into the corridor. Louis holds the doors open, gesturing for Harry to step inside. He does, and Liam follows, jabbing the button for the fifth floor. Louis presses the one for the fourteenth.

They’re all quiet on the short ride up. Liam’s got that face on, his lips pouted the way they do when he’s in tense situations. He’s drumming a fucking marching band number with his fingers against his thigh. The lift dings, the doors slide open, and Harry has never felt more relieved. He steps out.

“It was good seeing you,” he says to Louis.

“You too,” Louis says, hand against the doors again. “See you next Wednesday.”

“Right,” Harry says, when he remembers the small, private release party they’re having. “See you then.”

The lift doors begin to close and Louis’ face shrinks in the decreasing space between them until they shut with a thud and he’s gone.

“What the fuck was that?”

Liam’s reaction is so loud and so immediate it’s possible Louis overheard. Harry ignores him and heads in the direction of his room.

“I thought you said you liked him now,” Liam says. “I thought you two were friends this whole time.”

Harry finds room 506 and shoves the key card into the slot. “I thought so too.” He steps inside, drops his bags on the ground and falls face first onto his queen-sized bed.

“What just happened then?” Liam asks.

Harry turns over on the mattress. “I shouldn’t say.”

Liam takes a seat at the desk, leaning forward and bracing his arms atop his knees. “Should I guess then?” he asks and then proceeds to. “Did you have a row about Andy?”

“No,” Harry says, sitting upright. “I need a drink.”

Liam doesn’t move to find him one, though that would be the kind thing to do, wouldn’t it? He stares at Harry long and hard. His eyes widen slowly, and then somehow widen further with his mouth dropping open, brows shooting upward.

“Did you _sleep_ with him?”

“Why are you whispering? We’re the only ones here.” Harry leaves the bed and kneels by the mini-fridge. He selects a tiny bottle of pink moscato that the hotel will charge him a small fortune for. He twists off the cap and drinks for a solid minute. With a breath, he says, “Yes, Liam, I did. _But_ it’s not going to happen again. It was a mistake. I thought he was interested in one thing, and he was interested in something else. I said sorry. Everything’s good.”

“Except you can’t look him in the eye?”

“I haven’t had the chance in months. In my defence.”

“Does Andy know?”

“Of course not and I’m keeping it that way,” Harry says. He sticks his finger in Liam’s direction. “Also, Louis isn’t out. So don’t go talking about this with Niall or Zayn or whoever.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says. Liam’s actually quite good at keeping secrets. He pretends to be very confused about everything and everyone assumes he knows nothing at all. “It’s bad enough that Troye knows things and everyone else suspects.”

“Wait,” Liam says, holding up a hand. “You told Troye and not me?”

“I didn’t tell anyone anything. He happened to be at the shop when Louis sent me flowers.”

Liam’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. “He sent you _flowers_?”

Harry flattens himself on the floor. “You’ve asked me at least ten questions since we walked in here.”

“Help me understand something, Harry. He sent you flowers. You had sex. I imagine it wasn’t awful. He’s a nice man. You said so yourself. What went wrong?”

“That’s eleven,” Harry says. “That’s got to be eleven questions right there.”

“I’m proud that you can count. Now try answering,” Liam fires back.

Harry raises his middle finger into the air like a warped flag of surrender. “It’s just not logical for us to be anything more than what we are now. I clearly can’t even handle that much.”

“No shit, mate,” Liam says and sits back in his chair. Harry sits up straight so he can polish off his wine. Liam laughs, makes an attempt to stop himself, and then laughs again.

“What?” Harry says.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like that before,” Liam says. “I swore you’d shat yourself at one point.”

A bit of wine slips from Harry’s mouth when he grins. He uses the back of his hand to wipe his chin clean. “A minute longer in the lift and I might’ve too.”

†

It happens when they’re on their way to Venice Beach to meet Liam.

He and Andy rent a car earlier that day, have lunch near Rodeo Drive and then go shopping for Liam’s birthday presents. They’re zooming down the freeway now, after ambling through traffic for nearly an hour. The windows are low and the wind is in their hair. Andy’s head is tilted back and her heart-shaped sunnies are on, but even so, Harry knows she’s awake. Her lips are moving to the song ending on the radio, and she’s been too keyed up all day to nap.

It’s the 22nd of August. She’s received calls already from friends saying they heard the single. Niall’s heard it too. Harry and Andy haven’t been so lucky.

“Alright, that was ‘Body’ by Sam Smith,” the DJ says, some electronic sound effects firing off in the background. “Up next, we have a brand new song from a brand new band.”

Andy sits upright. Her hand flies outward to grip Harry’s forearm.

“We’ve been playing it for you all day. You’ve been loving it. So we’re going to play it again! This is ‘Raise Hell’ by The Wonderlands.”

As soon as the opening notes start up, Andy lets out a glass-shattering scream. Harry twists the volume dial all the way up and screams with her. They look at each other, screaming like they’ve both lost their minds, and then her voice is on the fucking radio. Andy, his daughter, is on the fucking radio.

This song isn’t one of Andy’s. It’s not one he helped her write, but it sounds like something they could have penned together. It sounds like something Cassie would have crafted too. It’s only fair that the band’s very first single be a product of combined effort from all of the girls. But Harry’s pleased to say that he liked it from the start.

The first time had been in a studio at 28 Productions.

It sounds worlds better thumping across the radio waves, filling up their rental car, pouring from the windows and onto the freeway.

The song centres on a girl who’s spent her whole life being told what to do. She has a ‘rebel heart’ and a ‘wild soul’ and the lyrics impede her to unleash them both. On the climb, the guitars fade out, leaving just the _tss, tss, tss_ of Kendra’s cymbals, and Andy singing: “ _They like her poised and pretty/They like her lips sealed tight_ / _She played along to the beat of that drum_ / _but she’s changing the tune tonight._ ”

And then Kendra smashes her cymbals and beats down on her drums.

_She's not here to make friends_

_She didn’t come to play nice_

_She tried it how you wanted and she did it how you liked_

_But now she wants to raise hell_

_We’re not here to be cool_

_Or play games by your rules_

_We like it how we like it and we want it now_

_Look out, we came to raise hell._

The words are snappy and fast-paced. He recognises Andy’s guitar as soon as it starts up and can only describe her solo as violent and devilish. Years have passed and it still amazes him how she plays, so much better than him, better than Cassie.

_So raise hell, kid. Raise hell._

_Got no one to please but yourself._

Harry presses a wet kiss to her forehead. On any other occasion, she might cringe and push him away, but she simply laughs. They sing together, rocking side-to-side in their seats, Harry drumming on the steering wheel, and Andy shredding on her air guitar.

_Raise hell, kid. Raise hell._

_Got nothing to prove but yourself._

†

Harry invites Liam to the small soiree held at the hotel, but he claims to have a date. He doesn’t necessarily mind going alone. There's free food and drinks involved. His only issue comes when he spots Louis within a minute of arriving. He’s wearing a soft pink T-shirt and black skinny jeans, appearing like a blanket Harry favoured as a child and even looks at Harry with the same amount of warmth.

Immediately, Harry looks away.

He sits at a table with Kendra’s dad, Mike, and they chat for a while about American football. Mike isn't exactly pleased when Harry tells him he’s a Packers fan, but then again, Mike favours the Steelers and hardly anyone likes them. Rachel stops by to say hi, which is literally _all_ she says — a simple, stunted ‘hi’ before she’s gone. Harry can’t really complain.

It all goes more smoothly than he anticipated. The girls stick around for only two hours before they announce that they’re going out. To where? They don't say. Andy bids him a goodnight and takes off. Only then does Harry realise that the concentration of guests has slowly begun to wane.

Of course, there’s one in particular still here, and he happens to be on the approach.

Louis steps right up to the table, nodding politely to Mike. He looks at Harry and says quietly, “I think we should talk.”

“Was just about to leave,” Harry says.

“Let’s talk first,” Louis says, stepping back to allow Harry room to stand. Harry lifts the napkin from his lap and sets it on the table. He stands and follows Louis towards the side of the room. Rachel, their unofficial though highly dedicated surveillance camera, tracks them the whole way there. They exit through a set of glass doors and onto a small balcony.

Los Angeles is lit up beautifully before them. The air is heavy with humidity and the smell of the food from inside. Louis shuts the doors behind them, and the curtains on the other side shield them from view. Harry looks at him.

“We’re good, yeah?” Louis asks.

Harry deflates like a hot air balloon. He sighs, shoulders sinking. “We’re good,” he says, pushing a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve been weird—”

“That’s a bit of an understatement,” Louis says.

Harry deserved that. “The other day— I hadn’t seen you in a while. I was caught off-guard.”

“So was I,” Louis says. He looks down at his shoes and then out at the city.

“I probably shouldn’t say this, but you should wear pink more often,” Harry says.

Louis casts a look down on himself, as if he’s forgotten the light pink button-up he has on. “You think so?”

“Really brings out your natural blush,” Harry says.

Louis lifts his brows. “That was obviously my whole goal.”

“Friends compliment each other all the time, don’t they?” Harry says. He’s debating with himself more than he is with Louis. “And we’re friends, aren’t we?”

“That’s what we agreed.”

“And that’s what you still want, right?”

Louis nods curtly. “Right.”

“Right,” Harry says. They sound like parrots. “So we’re friends.”

Louis smiles. “Good talk.”

“Do you enjoy being an arse sometimes?” Harry asks.

“I do.”

“That was a rhetorical question.”

“But a question nonetheless,” Louis says. “Which means I get to answer it if I want.”

Harry shakes his head. “Don’t you have another speech to go make?”

“I think I’ve exhausted my speech-making abilities for now. I tag you for the next go.”

“I’ve actually had too many of these drinks. I wouldn’t make any fucking sense.”

“And that would be out of the norm?” Louis asks, lifting his brows, grinning slowly.

Harry does his best to look affronted, though all he feels is happy. He likes to be teased. By certain people in particular. Louis happens to be one of them. “I change my mind,” he says. “Let’s be mortal enemies instead.”

“I was just about to suggest the same,” Louis says.

Their laughter trickles off when the glass doors open beside them. There’s a man standing there who Harry can’t say he’s ever seen before. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says. He’s handsome with short brunette hair, richly dressed and audibly American.

“Hi,” Louis says. The man steps further onto the balcony and positions himself beside Louis. Both of his hands are shoved into his pockets, but there’s something about the way he angles himself, something about the way his gaze leaves Louis reluctantly that starts an itch in Harry’s throat.

The man looks at Harry. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Harry replies with a polite nod.

Louis draws a breath. “Harry, this is Eric Fletcher. He works for Columbia Records, the label the girls are signed to in the US. Eric, this is Harry Styles, Andy’s dad.”

They shake hands. “Nice to meet you,” Harry says.

“Same to you. Your daughter’s really great. Haven’t seen someone with that much talent at such a young age in a while,” Eric says.

Harry smiles. “Thank you. I’m sure you’ve said so to her personally, but I’ll pass along the compliment.” He looks at Louis again, whose head is down, lips folded together. Odd, when he was so chatty a minute ago.

“I think I’m going to head off,” Eric says, and Louis lifts his head. The words are meant solely for him, though they’re subtle enough not to seem so. Harry knows better. He feels ill suddenly but blames it on his third drink. “Just wanted to say bye.”

Louis nods. “See you.”

Eric looks at Harry again with a smile.

“Nice meeting you, Harry. Hope I see you again.”

Harry wets his lips before he can speak. “I’m sure you will.”

Eric leaves, but the tension stays. Harry glances at Louis, and they’re silent for two seconds too long. Harry laughs quietly to himself.

“I think I need another one,” he says, wiggling his glass. “You?”

Louis shakes his head. “I thought you’d had enough.”

“I did too, but the urge just hit me again,” Harry says with a shrug. “Enjoy the rest of the party.”

Louis looks like he’s about to say something more but then simply smiles.

Harry leaves him on the balcony. He doesn’t have another mojito. He forgoes the lime and mint and goes straight for a shot of tequila. It burns on its way down, and his skin is heated enough. He stands by the bar for a while, picking at the quick of his nails. His mind is heavy with thoughts and too addled by liquor to make sense of them.

He has no reason left to be here, and it’s suddenly the last place he wants to be. He checks for his wallet and room key in his pocket. With one last glance around the party for no one in particular, he departs.

†

Sleep is playing hard to get. Two or three hours pass with him sprawled across his mattress. He’s tired but apparently not enough and drunk but not in a way that makes him drowsy. Usually, a glass of wine sends him right off. All it’s done is make him lucid as he stares at the ceiling or at the blurry shapes on the TV.

It takes him a moment to realise someone has knocked twice on his door. He pushes himself upright with an old man’s groan and stumbles forward, shirtless but still clad in his black jeans. He spies through the peephole, but the person on the other side is standing too close with their head bowed. All he sees is brown hair cast in the dim glow of a wall sconce.

He pulls the door open.

Louis’ gaze drops immediately to his bare torso. He draws a small breath and takes a step backwards. Harry dares to feel smug.

“Yes?”

Louis focuses intently on his face. “Andy’s not in her room.”

The burst of excitement and thrill he felt a second ago evaporates immediately. His hand falls away from the door frame. “She was when I spoke to her.”

“The girls were just in the hall looking for her,” Louis says. “They said she's been gone for over an hour. She told Kendra she was going to get more ice and hasn't come back. When did you last speak with her?”

Harry abandons the door to grab his phone from the bedside table. “Around one.”

“How’d she sound?” Louis asks. He’s stepped further into the room.

“Tired?” Harry says, lifting his mobile to his ear. “Said she was going to sleep.”

The phone rings until it reaches her voicemail. Harry tries again while shoving on a pair of shoes. He tries a third time while pulling on a tattered shirt. One nipple is a bit exposed but he doesn’t have time to care. He jams his mobile into his back pocket. “Do you have a car I could borrow?”

“Where are you going?” Louis asks. “Let me help you.”

Harry’s foot starts tapping the floor anxiously. “I don't know, but I wouldn't be surprised if she isn't in the hotel anymore.”

“Has she run away before?”

“Twice when she was younger,” Harry says. “I’m obviously not any good with the whole discipline thing. She takes after her mum.”

“I’m not judging you, Harry,” Louis says. “Let’s just find her, yeah?”

Harry gets his wallet and his keys from the bedside table. “She’s probably gone to a park.”

“I know a few,” Louis says. He glances at the table where there are four mini bottles of wine sitting empty. “Did you polish those off recently?”

“Possibly.”

Louis smiles. “I’ll drive then. Come on.”

If this had happened in Glasgow or Brighton or any other city Harry has been with Louis, he might have been embarrassed. They didn’t know each other well enough then. They don’t know each other all that well now. But Louis isn’t the man of ice and stone that Harry pictured a year ago. He knows that much.

Louis cares deeply and openly. He sacrifices his time and effort for others, and Harry thinks he actually enjoys doing so, which perhaps is why he's seated in his BMW now, carting Harry about after midnight in search of his daughter.

“There’s a park just down the street,” Louis says. “Suppose we’ll check there first.”

“Good idea,” Harry replies as an afterthought. He’s staring through the window, scanning the pavement as they pass it by. Louis turns the radio on. He seems to think that’ll settle him. But then ‘Raise Hell’ comes on, and things turn awkward.

“They sound great on the radio,” Harry murmurs.

“Like the radio was made for them,” Louis says.

Harry’s lips curve upwards. “I just don’t understand,” he says. “Today was a good day for her. She was happy.”

“I’m sure she’s alright,” Louis says, as Andy belts a high note on the radio. He changes the station, and Harry doesn’t say so, but he’s grateful.

They pull up to the park, and Louis climbs out with him.

“It’s best if you wait here,” Harry tells him. “Should be fine on my own.”

Louis nods, leaning against the bonnet of his car. “Call if something goes wrong.”

The park is noticeably small and brightly lit from the lights of a tennis court to the side. Harry’s not too worried about his safety. He starts on his way past a rusty rubbish bin and a water fountain that doesn’t look like it’s worked in years. The path runs a circle around a large open stretch of grass. Harry walks the entirety of it, but most of the benches he passes are empty. The two that aren’t belong to a homeless man or woman. The scarce trees aren’t sheltering any seventeen-year-old girls either.

Harry pulls his phone out and dials Andy’s number, waiting while it rings and rings and goes to voicemail.

“This is Andy. I’m sorry I’ve not answered. If you leave me a message, I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

The phone beeps and Harry waits for a minute before speaking.

“It’s past two in the morning, and no one knows where you are,” Harry says. “I’m worried sick. I’m standing in some park and you’re not here and I’m exhausted and a little drunk and if you could ring me back and tell me where to find you, that’d be great. Please be okay. I love you.”

He hangs up, stuffing his phone into his pocket, and returns to Louis. He doesn't have to respond when he sees him.

Louis pushes off the car and proceeds to the driver’s door “Let’s keep looking.”

They try City Terrace Park and Atlantic Avenue Park. Both take a bit longer to search. It’s 3:00 a.m. when Louis stops at a petrol station, fills up his tank, and pops into the shop for energy drinks.

“You said she's done this before,” he says when they’re back on the road. “How long did it take you to find her?”

“About an hour,” Harry says. “Our neighbourhood is small. She was at the park down the road. It only took me so long because it wasn't where I looked first. The second time it happened, it took about fifteen minutes. We were at my mum’s home, and the park nearby was the first place I checked, and that was where I found her.”

“Did she explain why she’d run?”

Harry doesn't reply right away, prompting Louis to glance his way.

“You don't have to answer that in detail. Or at all,” Louis says. “I shouldn't have asked.”

“No, it's fine.” Harry drums his fingers on the window sill. “The first time, she was seven. She'd been cross with me earlier that day because I told her she wouldn't be getting a new mum. I could’ve done a better job of it, but I was trying to get a point across. I tried to explain that one day she might have another dad instead, but it didn’t help at all. And so she cried and refused to speak to me and went to bed. I was drunk later on and didn't hear her leave.

“The second time, she was nine, and she overheard a conversation I was having with my mum and sister about Cassie. About how she was killed. I used to tell her that God had come for her mum because he really needed her, and she was doing a lot of good somewhere else. And obviously, she knew then that I’d lied. She's always been a runner. Just like me. Just like her mum. I just thought she'd grown out of it.”

Louis’ lips are pressed in a tight line. “I'm sorry about Cassie,” he says after a while. “When you say killed—”

“I mean she was run off the road,” Harry says. “By someone who wanted to hurt her.”

Louis’ hand tightens on the steering wheel and his eyes narrow. He looks angry. Most people who learn the exact nature of her death are, but angry is all they can be. What other reaction is there aside from sadness? Pity? Harry prefers the anger.

“I know you don't know what to say because there's nothing you _can_ say. It's alright.”

Louis exhales a short breath that sounds vaguely like laughter. “My first thought would be to give you a hug or something, but I obviously can't.”

Harry keeps his gaze directed through the window and an impassive look on his face as the words on his tongue roll free. “I can't imagine Eric would appreciate that, though. You comforting me late at night.”

It's ugly. He knows that immediately, but what's done is done. He pastes on a smile, looks at Louis and finds a plastic smile on his lips too.

“Am I right?” Harry asks.

“Well, when you put it like that...”

That’s not a denial. “I know you don’t do casual,” Harry muses. “So it’s serious then, between you and him?”

Louis doesn’t reply straight away, fingers tapping the steering wheel.

“Friends tell each other things, don’t they?” Harry prods.

Louis actually laughs. “We haven’t spoken for months.”

“That's not how you said it on the balcony.”

“It was earlier then. I had a few drinks in me.”

“You’re full of shit,” Harry tells him.

Louis’ smirk verges on pompous, which Harry appreciates more than he should. On some people, arrogance is becoming. “We’ve been seeing each other for about two months,” Louis says finally.

Harry redirects his gaze to the buildings passing by. He extends his arm through the window and lets his hand ride the wind’s back. He wonders if they fucked, Louis and Eric. If Louis made him wait or if he gave it to him on the first encounter where it was possible. He wonders if they had an actual first date or if Louis came to Eric’s home immediately after his flight landed, drenched in rainwater. If Eric dried his hair for him and undressed him. He wonders what it’s like to be courted by Louis and to court him. To sleep and wake up beside him. He wonders too much.

“He’s been really helpful with the girls,” Louis says, as if Harry asked. “Coordinating events for them in the US and all that.”

“He sounds great,” Harry replies simply.

They drive the next two minutes or so in complete, stifling silence. They don’t look at each other. Or perhaps Louis glances at him, but Harry keeps his eyes on the city and never notices.

He brought this on himself. Can’t blame someone for being honest, especially not when he asked.

“This is Echo Park,” Louis says, when they’ve pulled up to the kerb. “The girls have actually come here before.”

Harry looks through the window, his throat tightening when he sees how dark the park is. The lake is visible from where they’re parked, and Harry pictures someone tossing his only heir into its murky depths. Harry exhales a big puff of air, reaching for his seat belt.

“I’m hoping you come back with her this time,” Louis says, cutting off the engine. “So before you do—” He turns to face him. “You asked, you know? I wasn’t going to bring him up, but you asked.”

Harry pauses, face wrinkled with confusion. “I’m aware.”

“I’m just making sure you don’t think—” Louis clenches his jaw and purses his lips. “Never mind.”

“I’m sorry if I’m coming off as unhappy for you, but that’s not true,” Harry says. It’s immediately too awkward for him to bear. Neither of them knows what to say. Harry unbuckles his seat belt, pops his door open and steps outside. He turns and ducks down to speak through the window. “This park’s a bit sketchier than the others. If I’m not back in five minutes or so, it either means I’ve found her and we’re talking or I’ve been knifed.”

Louis stalls a moment before pushing his door open.

“It’s better if I go on my own,” Harry tells him again. “She won’t tell me what’s wrong if you’re there.”

Louis locks his car. “I’ll stay a few feet behind you. Out of sight.”

He steps around to the pavement and waves his hand towards the cement path leading into the park. He gives him a five-second head start and follows. If Harry listens closely, he can still hear his footsteps behind him, but he finds it comforting. The park is dimly lit at this entrance and populated by plenty of trees, where anyone could be hiding, waiting to knife him like he predicted. He’s not scared but guarded, better so knowing someone else is with him. It's possible that the park is closed. There's no one in sight, though that could also be attributed to the late hour on a weekday. Harry walks slowly and vigilantly, and after ten minutes, he's seen nothing. His phone vibrates in his back pocket.

 ** _Make your next left_** , Louis’ message reads. **_She might be by the lake._**

Harry does as advised, which takes him and Louis up an incline and to a view that overlooks a brightly lit section of LA. If there was time, it'd be nice to stop and appreciate it. But then he looks away from the lake to scan the tables and benches. He exhales his first steady breath in over two hours.

 **Found her** , he sends Louis.

He knows from the sight of the pink hoodie and black Converse shoes. Andy is lying across the long seat of a picnic table. Her hood is up. One arm dangles at her side, the other is atop her stomach.

Harry walks up to the bench and plops down beside her, careful to be especially loud about it. She bolts upright, her hood slipping off, eyes widening. She looks at him with a hand pressed to her rapidly inflating chest. Slowly, her breathing regulates, and the alarm in her expression trickles away.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Harry says. “Did I scare you?”

She narrows her eyes.

Harry stretches his legs out in front of him and tilts his head back a bit. “I really thought you’d grown out of this,” he says, groaning softly as he stretches his tired muscles.

Andy pulls her knees up tightly to her chest. “I’m not a little kid. I can go places by myself.”

“At one in the morning? When no one knows where you are?” Harry asks. “You don’t want to be an adult. I keep telling you it’s not fun. I promise it’s awful. But if you _were_ trying to be an adult, you’d be terrible at it. _This_ ”—he gestures around them—“isn’t really a wise, adult move.”

She turns her head away, resting her chin atop her knees. They're quiet for a while afterwards. Harry stares at the lake ahead of them and distant, city lights like stars and balls of fire.

“So, what's wrong?”

She doesn't say a word.

“Louis is here,” Harry says, and Andy’s eyes widen again. He lifts both hands in a sign of innocence. “He insisted. He drove me all the way here, and he’s waiting nearby. If you need to talk or cry or confess murder, now’s the time to do it. We can't keep him waiting all night.”

She remains quiet for so long Harry nearly gives up. He imagines Louis standing by some tree, growing sleepy and still somehow managing to be patient. Harry sits up straight and sets his hands on his knees, readying himself to stand.

“I had sex,” she says.

A stranger could pop out with a knife right now, and he thinks it’d have the same effect. He feels instantly eviscerated, not because of the revelation itself but of its nature. Because she’s telling him this after running away, and all his tired, half-inebriated mind can imagine is that something went wrong. That someone hurt her.

He runs both hands up and down his thighs to dry his palms. “Are you okay?” he asks, and now he's checking her clothes for blood and her wrists for bruises. “Are you hurt?”

Andy lifts her head. “No, I’m not hurt.”

“Did you use protection?” he asks, picking at a tear in his jeans.

Andy exhales. “No.”

There it is.

He wonders if Cassie would laugh. Or if she'd rage first and ask questions later. The irony of it all is astounding. What is it about his family and their lack of safe sex practices?

He feels like he’s going to be sick again. The nausea from hours earlier comes hurtling back. He swallows a few times to get the tacky, bitter taste from his mouth.

“Was it recently?” he asks. “There are things we can buy if you're worried. And we’ll schedule an appointment to get you tested as soon as you’re home—”

“It was a girl.”

Harry comes to a full and complete stop. Stops breathing. Stops blinking.

Cassie would laugh. Definitely. She'd be on the floor, laughing so hard her stomach ached and the ground shook beneath her.

“A girl,” Harry repeats.

Andy puts her face in her hands. “Yes.”

When he says nothing, she looks at him. They look at each other. “Are you…?” He swallows again. His throat feels like it’s narrowed to the diameter of a straw. “Are you telling me you’re…?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I’m not sure.”

“Has this happened before?”

“No, but I’ve thought about it.”

“About having sex with girls?”

Andy looks up at the sky. “Have mercy…”

“I just want to be sure. Is it just with girls or with boys too? Help me understand.”

“It’s both,” she says. “More girls than boys lately. But I like boys. There’ve been boys I’ve genuinely liked, but it’s all confusing now. All I know is I went out last night with a girl after the party. She took me back to her room and things happened and I liked it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with any of that,” Harry says. “Please tell me you know that. And that you weren’t afraid to say this to me of all people.”

“No, just afraid to say it to anyone. When I still don’t know what it is.” She folds her hands together in her lap. “And I know it isn’t wrong, but it’s still scary. It was weird being around Kendra when I got back to the room, so I took off. I'm sorry if I worried you. I’m sure everyone must be worried.”

“Of course they are,” Harry says. “People care about you. Believe it or not. People are willing to help you if you need help. Me more than anyone.”

“You can't help me with everything. Whether you support me or not, there are lots of people who won't.”

“Then those people don’t matter,” Harry says. “The only ones who do are the ones who support you.”

“That isn't true,” Andy says. “Fans matter. They're the ones who matter most when it comes to my career. If they don't support me, that’s it for me. And the band.”

“Is that what you imagine happening? In 2017? That you’ll lose all your fans if they know you like girls too?”

“I don’t _know_ what I imagine happening,” she says. “I don’t know what to call this. I don’t know what happens next. This girl gave me her number, and I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know anything. I literally can’t think. That’s why I’m out here.” She puts her head between her knees. “I can’t fucking think.”

Harry lets his shoulders sag. He remembers Louis again and wishes he’d found Andy by himself. This all might take longer than he thought.

“It doesn’t have to have a name, you know?” Harry says. “That’s the beautiful thing about love and sexuality. It exists as a spectrum, and you could fall anywhere on it. You might find a label that fits, or you might not. Whatever happens, that’s fine. I think it’s enough that you’re trying to make sense of something that hardly ever makes any fucking sense to anyone. It never comes easily to any of us. I spent a lot of time growing up thinking there was something wrong with me. And I still— Sometimes, I’ll admit I still have those moments where I think I’ve made life so much harder on myself being the way I am.”

Andy looks at him. “There’s nothing at all wrong with you.”

“Sometimes, it’s hard not to think so. Being gay in this sort of world is confusing and difficult, and I’m still figuring it out as I go along. But that’s the best you can do, coming to terms with who you are, even if that takes years, living the fullest life you can, whatever that means to you.” Harry looks at her. “And I think, just by daring to feel something for a girl or to tell me what happened last night, that you’re doing a great job so far, and I’m incredibly proud of you.”

Andy drags her sleeve across her cheek. Her gaze is directed away from him, most likely because she’s crying. She stays completely still, and he waits for her to respond. Then she scoots a bit closer to him, and her head falls against his shoulder.

“You’re doing an okay job too,” she says.

Harry wraps his arm around her shoulder. “Thanks,” he says dryly.

She laughs, tearfully. “We should probably get back to Louis now, shouldn’t we?” She lifts her head. “Why’d you drag him out here in the first place? It’s so unprofessional.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “You’d probably be in the boot of someone’s car right now if not for him.” He gets to his feet, holding his arm out for her. “Come on.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Andy mumbles, allowing him to drape his arm over her shoulder again.

“Says the girl who ran away at three in the morning,” Harry says. “Bit of a cliche for a rock star, you know?”

“Next time, I’ll kick some car windows in too.”

Louis is sitting on a park bench overlooking the city with a cigarette between his lips. His phone is in his hands, thumbs moving quickly across the screen. He could be playing Solitaire for all Harry knows, but he assumes the worst, which is a message for Eric. Maybe Louis had left him in bed before this all happened.

Louis sees them and stands, sliding his phone into his pocket. “Good?”

Andy nods. “Thank you for coming. I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be,” Louis says, shaking his head. “Just glad you’re alright. Let’s get back.”

The walk through the park is silent. Louis doesn’t look at his phone again. He’s got his hands stuffed in his pockets and walks a few steps beside Harry with his eyes on the cement. They reach the car, climb inside, and head back to the hotel.

“You head up first,” Harry says to Andy quietly. They’re standing near the lifts. “I’m just going to thank Louis again.”

“Aright. Good night.”

Harry hugs her and murmurs quietly in her ear, “Don’t do this again. Makes me look bad to the other parents.”

She laughs. “Bye,” she says, pushing him away. The lift doors slide open, and she steps inside, waving to him and Louis, standing a few feet behind him.

Harry turns to face Louis when the doors close. “I think she's tired herself out now. Should sleep through the night,” he says.

“We can only hope,” Louis says.

Harry smiles. “Thank you for everything you’ve done tonight. I’d probably still be looking for her if not for you.”

“Possibly,” Louis says, smiling. He twists his key ring around his pointer finger. “You should probably get some more sleep too.”

“Surprisingly, I’m not all that tired,” Harry says. Not to mention, he’d been suffering through a bout of insomnia before this all began. “I don’t think I’d be able to get to sleep now.”

Louis twirls his keys again and looks across the lobby. “I’m going for a cuppa at the cafe over there,” he says, looking at Harry. “They won’t be open for another hour, but I know some of the staff. Their stuff is good.”

Harry lifts his brows. “Is it?”

“By my standards,” Louis says. A beat of silence. “Want to come?”

“Sure,” Harry says, too quickly. He worried that by now, Louis would be desperate to get back to his hotel room. Perhaps there’s a man waiting there for him, or perhaps he’s had enough of Harry for one night. So, Harry jumps to the opportunity when the opposite proves true. He's too eager, yes. He's always too eager. But still, he jumps.

Louis gets them into the cafe without much trouble at all. He says a few words to the concierge. She rings someone up, and a minute later, the cafe doors open, and there’s a man standing there, who shakes hands with Louis and beckons them inside.

They find a little nook by the window, which is easy since they're the only ones there. The sky beyond the polished glass is dark, though faintly on the horizon, there are traces of cobalt. A waiter comes to them. Louis orders Earl Grey. Harry orders chai.

For a second, they’re both just looking through the window at the few cars on the road and the street lights changing. Then Louis speaks, voice soft and fitting for an early morning chat.

“How are you liking LA?”

“I love it,” Harry says. “I always have. Liam lives in Pasadena, so it’s not my first time here.”

Louis sits back in his seat, pressing his shoulders into the padded booth behind him. “Had no idea. What brought him to LA?”

“He’s a DJ, and he heard the music scene was good out here. His girlfriend at the time was a model and had an opportunity to work for an agency in Hollywood. So, it just made sense. It was a big move. We all cried like babies.”

Louis smiles. “I’m having a hard time picturing you crying like a baby.”

“Really? I cry all the time,” Harry says. “It’s therapeutic.”

“I agree.”

“I can’t picture you crying at all.”

“Put on Titanic and I’ll show you.”

Harry laughs, resting his chin in his palm. “That’s the trick, is it?”

“Usually works like a charm. I cry during births too. My sister had a baby early last year, the eldest one, Lottie, and I think I cried harder than the baby himself.”

“I’m starting to picture it now,” Harry says, smiling softly. He pictures Louis crying over a newborn baby and feels critically endeared. “You know what gets me? A good ole rom-com. Love Actually, for instance. Pride & Prejudice.”

“Don’t think that last one counts as a rom-com,” Louis says.

“It’s funny and romantic. It counts, believe me. I don’t usually sob about it, or any film for that matter, but I always want to. When the two love interests find each other, who wouldn’t want to cry happy tears for them?”

“I’ve got to see you watch Pride & Prejudice now.”

“Same to you with Titanic.”

Louis presses his smile into the rim of his teacup, taking a sip.

“What did your sister name her baby?” Harry asks, adding a bit more sugar to his tea.

“Charles. But his middle name is Louis, so I’m satisfied.”

“Charles Louis,” Harry says. “That’s a very royal name.”

“I think so too. I used to say my firstborn son would be Alexander or Xavier. Those are powerful names. No one fucks with an Alexander or an Xavier.”

Harry laughs, resting his head against the back of the booth. “And what if you have a girl?”

“Victoria or Johannah for my mum. Never fuck with a Johannah either. I’d know.”

Harry could probably listen to Louis talk highly of his mum all day, so he asks, “You said you and her were quite close, yeah?”

“Very close,” Louis says. “She’s one of my best friends. I tell her everything, probably some things I shouldn’t. Couldn’t always share certain things with close friends. With my mum, no matter what I say, she’d still love me and protect my secrets.”

Harry’s natural reaction is to wonder what secrets. He obviously doesn’t ask.

“That’s how a parent should be. My mum’s the same, although I don’t think I tell her everything. Mostly so she won’t worry.” Harry has a sip of his chai. “I try to be that for Andy too. I try not to worry too much or nag her so that she’ll feel more comfortable telling me things. I’m not sure I’ve done the best job there.”

“I disagree,” Louis says. “Tonight, for example, that was great how you handled things. I’m assuming you didn’t go crazy on her.”

“I wanted to. She was just lying there, out in the open, where anyone could’ve come along—” He stops himself. It’s too stressful to even hypothesise about. “She had a valid reason in the end, though. She hasn’t killed anyone or stolen anything. She’s just growing still, learning about herself, and sometimes she gets scared. She gets that from me, I guess.”

“You get scared easily?” Louis asks.

“I pretend not to, but yes. Not of snakes and spiders, but of caring too much.”

Louis tilts his head. “Want to be more specific?”

Harry stares for a moment, folding his lips together. It must be the late hour and the lack of sleep that inspire him to be so honest. “Caring about someone or something is supposed to make you happy. But something will always eventually happen in that relationship to cause you pain. Either the person moves away. Or you lose that thing. Someone stops caring about you, or you stop caring about them. Or they die. Something will happen, and then you’ll either be left hurting or leave someone hurting. And all because you were human and you cared. Obviously, that doesn’t stop me from caring, but it’s something I think about, something that terrifies when I’m not drunk or high.”

Louis’ expression is enough of a response. He clearly doesn't know what to say to all that. He casts his gaze down, his thumbs running a path around the rim of his cup.

“It’s pretty pessimistic, I know. But it’s a fear so that’s sort of the point.” Harry shrugs. “What scares you? Aside from spiders and snakes?”

“I don’t mind snakes actually, and I’m not afraid of spiders, just violently opposed,” Louis says. “I think my biggest fear”—he takes a breath to steel himself—“is being alone. Not just in a romantic sense, but I literally hate being alone for any reason. And it’s funny because I think people imagine the opposite about me, but that's the truth: I love being surrounded by people. I love having my family and friends over, though I hardly ever have the time. I like making new friends, but trusting new people enough is hard. I spent so much time early on in my career surrounded by fake people, and I’d do anything to avoid them now, even if that means avoiding people altogether sometimes.”

“Don’t you ever _want_ the time to yourself though?” Harry wonders.

“I get so much of it whether I want it or not. I go to work and sit in my office alone. I come home and I'm alone, aside from Pepper. I think I'm good on alone time,” Louis says. “Whenever I’m on my own, I start to think the most miserable shit. I prefer company.”

Harry will concede on that note, considering how many nights he’s spent alone and wallowing in self-pity. “Good point.”

This makes them opposites to a degree. Harry doesn’t want to surround himself with more people to care and worry about. He’d be happy for a husband some day and perhaps another child, though even that terrifies him. But he has more than enough friends. He likes his circle small. Louis contradicts him there. He wants his circle big. Surprise, surprise.

“The right company is the key,” Louis says. “Even if you need time to yourself, if you’ve got the right person with you, you can still have it.”

“Wouldn’t that be the dream?”

“It's one of mine.”

When they’ve been looking at each other for a second too long, Harry glances through the window again or down at the kaleidoscope patterns in the dark wood of the table.

“By the way, if I can help Andy, I want to,” Louis says. “Whatever it was bothering her, I’d help if I could. I hope she knows that.”

“ _I_ know that, so she should too,” Harry says. “You’ve been very helpful. Soon enough, she’ll want to open up to you, and I imagine you’ll be as kind as you have been so far.”

He doesn’t attempt to sound menacing. That’s never been his forte. But he wants his expectations clear so that when the time comes, Louis feels further compelled to meet them. He doesn’t doubt the scope of Louis’ compassion or understanding, but the fact that Louis isn’t out about his own sexuality gives him reason to wonder.

“I will be,” Louis says simply. Harry will have to believe that.

He smiles. “We should have tea together more often. We have good talks over tea.”

“Maybe when you stop avoiding me,” Louis says, lifting his brows and his cup and taking a dainty sip.

Harry stills, his eyes darting upward. “I haven’t been—”

Louis gives him a look that effectively silences him. “You never come to the studio anymore,” he says. “There were two gigs, one in June and one in July. We saw each other, and you left without saying hi.”

Harry sticks a finger through his bun and scratches an itchy spot on his scalp.

“You were there at the photo shoot in May too,” Louis continues. “You said hi then, but afterwards, I’ve never seen you move more quickly. One second you were there. The next you were gone. You’ve been avoiding me. Doing a good job of it too.”

Harry leans back in his seat and exhales. “I thought it was for the best.”

“Sure,” Louis says. “But you’ve also said multiple times that you want to be friends. Can’t be friends by avoiding someone. LA makes you chatty, I guess. But when we’re home, I don’t think you’ll be as eager for our talks over tea.”

“It’s not just LA,” Harry says. “Maybe I just like talking to you and didn’t realise how much until now?”

Louis’ smile grows. He licks his top lip the way Harry privately adores. “Maybe when we’re in London, we should have tea all three of us. Me, you and Andy.”

“And Eric,” Harry says.

Louis shrugs. “If he’s in town, why not?”

Harry draws a cross over his heart. “No more avoiding you, I promise.”

“Good,” Louis says, and he truly does seem happy.

Harry pictures Cassie looking down (or up, possibly) at him and shaking her head. _You’re a selfish bastard_ , she might say. It’s not the first time he’s been made aware.

Louis genuinely wants to be his friend. He wants Harry to be a part of his circle, and after all the many ways Harry has slighted this man since February, he should be grateful.

But he still feels strange _things_ he shouldn’t when it comes to Louis. He felt thrilled when Louis appeared at his hotel room door. He felt ill when Louis confirmed his relationship with Eric. Though Louis’ offer for friendship would make a better man happy, Harry can sometimes be…a selfish bastard.

Nonetheless, they lift their cups and sip their tea in what appears to be peaceful silence.

“Excuse me.”

There’s a woman standing beside their table suddenly, dressed in denim shorts and a T-shirt with a bedazzled Mickey Mouse across the front. The straps of a swimsuit stick out of the top, and she’s got two beach towels in one arm.

“I’m so sorry to bother you so early,” she says to them both, and then she sets her gaze on Louis. “But my daughter would never forgive me if I told her I saw you without getting your autograph.”

Harry looks around and only now does he notice that the cafe doors are open. It’s still too early and the staff hasn’t finished dressing a few of the tables. This woman must have snuck in. He waits for the annoyance that’s sure to come in Louis’ expression. The sun’s not even up yet. He hasn’t finished his tea. It’s not a time for fan service.

Louis smiles. “That's alright.” He places his teacup down and holds out his hand for a shake. The woman takes his hand quickly, shifting her beach towels to her other arm.

“Nice to meet you—” Louis pauses for her name.

“Iris,” she says. They release hands. “It’s so nice to meet you, Louis. I knew it was you as soon as I passed by the door. My daughter, Claire, loves you. Ever since she was sixteen. We went to your concerts every year in New York, and she still has her posters and T-shirts. She got married two years ago and played all of your music at the reception too.”

“Seriously?” Louis says, brows arching.

“Yes, she’s still a diehard fan. She’ll be equally heartbroken and happy to know I met you.”

“Are you here with her?” Louis asks. “If she’s nearby, I don’t mind waiting to meet her.”

Iris looks incredibly touched. She even places her hand on her heart. (Harry nearly does the same.) “She’s unfortunately not here,” she says. “I’m with my other daughter for a convention. Claire couldn’t come since she’s just had a baby.”

“Congrats,” Louis says.

“Thank you,” Iris says. “Are the rumours true that you’re working on new music?”

Louis huffs a laugh. “No, not really. I worked on a song with a friend of mine. His album comes out next year. But that’s about it.”

“Well, Claire will be the first to buy your album if you change your mind.”

“That’s good to know,” Louis says, grinning. “I’m focusing most of my attention on the artists under my label right now.” He gestures toward Harry. “This is actually the father of one of the girls in The Wonderlands.”

Iris looks at Harry. “Oh, those girls are _fantastic_. Which one’s yours?”

“Andy, the curly-haired one,” Harry says bashfully.

“Oh my God, Claire _loves_ her. We both do. She has such a beautiful voice, and the way she _plays_ —” She gives a small screech, her fist curling. “We’ll definitely be buying that album. Front row at the concerts too.”

Harry laughs. “I think you and your daughter are my new favourite people.”

“You and your daughter are mine,” Iris says.

You’d think it wasn’t close to six in the morning with all the smiling going on.

“Does Claire have a Twitter or something?” Louis asks. “I could follow her.”

Somehow Iris’ smile grows even bigger. “That would be so great.”

She jots down her and her daughter’s Twitter accounts on a paper napkin, and Louis follows them right away. “I think you should wait until she sees the notification to explain,” he says.

“Oh, I definitely will,” she says. “She’ll be calling me within the next hour, I’m sure.”

She poses beside Louis for a picture that Harry does the honour of taking, and Louis autographs a T-shirt Iris pulls from the depths of her beach bag, one she says she bought for Claire. She and Louis hug tightly and for a long while. She tells him she’s proud of him and loves him, and somehow those words feel genuine. There’s something familial in their exchange. She hugs Harry too and with a wave, she departs.

He and Louis smile at one another.

“That was kind of fun,” Harry decides.

“I think so too.”

“Not always like that, is it?”

“Nope. Although it’s never as bad these days as when I was actually in a band. I still get papped regularly. I'm still in the news. But the difference is in getting swarmed at an airport and travelling with only a handful of people showing interest in me.”

“Because you stopped making music?”

“Maybe,” Louis says with a shrug. “I think it has more to do with me not feeding the media machine. I purposefully fly under the radar and so public interest in me has inevitably died down. The more you get papped, the more people care. And vice versa.”

Harry sits forward, folding his arms atop the table. “Why is that?”

“Just how it works. It's why celebrities call paps on themselves or have their publicists do it for them. Let's say I posed as a pap and you as a celebrity, and we walked about LA with me snapping pics of you. People would take interest. People would want your autograph and your picture without even knowing who you are. That's a proven fact. Interest generates interest.”

“So how is it any different for you when you get papped all the time?”

“That's my point: I don't get papped all the time. Certainly not at the same frequency as someone more popular. And I like it that way. It’s purposefully done.”

“Clever,” Harry says.

“I usually am.”

Harry breathes a quiet laugh, lifting his tea. “And humble.”

Louis grins, lifting his cup as well.

“Look,” he says. His gaze has shifted towards the window. “There she goes.”

The sun has burst over the horizon, bright, fiery gold against abating sapphire. They watch together in silence, sipping their tea, shoulders slumped against the back of the booths. Harry glances at Louis and finds him bathed in pinkish-yellow light, a soft, somewhat sleepy smile on his face.

He’s a study in portraiture. Any artists standing beside them would have the sunrise and Louis Tomlinson at their disposal, and they'd choose Louis every time. Harry thinks they’d be fools otherwise.

†

On his last day in Los Angeles, they celebrate Liam’s birthday, watching the LA Angels face the San Francisco Giants. Liam's new girlfriend comes too. Her name is Marjorie. She's an older, brunette woman who reminds Harry a bit of Nigella Lawson. She's also rolling in a ludicrous amount of money according to Liam and gets them coveted box seats without batting an eyelash. It could be a good thing if not for Marjorie's recent divorce and Liam's solicitous tendencies, but they seem to like each other’s company, which in the end is what matters.

Good company is all anyone really needs. Louis said as much, despite his aversion to casual relationships.

Liam’s birthday dinner is held at a Japanese steakhouse, where they gorge themselves on meats that seem to melt in their mouths and authentic Japanese beer. Andy returns to the hotel afterwards. Harry, Liam, and Marjorie walk the city for a bit before finding a club to pop into. It's nearly 3 AM when they return to Liam's, drunk and loose from exhaustion.

Harry regrets checking out of the hotel.

He hears them have sex. It’s impossible not to with Liam’s flat being so small or them being so drunk. He gets his earphones out eventually, and at least that helps drown out the noise. As for his thoughts, those refuse, as usual, to settle down.

Everyone else has company. His best mate. Even his daughter. And of course, Louis too.

His last thought before he drifts off is that it's well past time he had some company of his own.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> added a "depression" tag because Cassie, particularly in this chapter, is very clearly depressed. there's some terminology that may seem to hint at suicide but that isn't what happens.

**OCTOBER 2017**

“Is this your little sister?”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut and exhales heavily. He sets his phone and wallet on the kitchen table and crosses the short distance to the living room. The man standing there, looking over his picture frames, is Seth. He’s one of Troye’s friends, and he’s twenty-six.

“Or your twin?” he asks.

Harry shakes his head. “My daughter,” he says, stepping close. He takes the beer bottle from the other man’s hand, although it’s still half-full.

“Your daughter,” Seth repeats. Harry doesn’t have to look at him to know that his expression has changed. He knows the scepticism and the disinterest too well by now. “How do you have a daughter that old?”

Harry shrugs, reaching for Seth’s belt buckle. He unfastens it. “She was born when I was seventeen.”

“So you’re—?”

“Do you want to fuck me?” Harry asks, his brows creasing.

Seth pauses, mouth hanging open. He’s good-looking and well-built. A brilliant art history student, apparently, which doesn’t explain his lacklustre personality or his inability to craft answers in a timely manner. Harry can be the same way sometimes — long-winded and rambling whenever he tries to explain himself. But time is crucial here: Harry is about five minutes away from running out of patience and strolling off to bed.

“Yeah, I do,” Seth replies. “I’m not looking for a serious relationship, though. I’m working on my book right now, you know?”

Harry turns away. “The bed’s this way.”

Remember how he’d sworn to Louis that he’d never want to use someone for sex. He’d apparently lied. He’s drunk enough that he doesn't feel awful about it just yet.

By three in the morning, when he wakes to take a piss, Seth is gone. The sheets are cool, which means he’s probably been gone for a while. Maybe he waited until immediately after Harry fell asleep. Harry lets Belle into the room and goes back to bed before letting himself care.

He’s woken minutes later by his phone ringing. He can hear it through the door, chiming and shaking on the kitchen table. There’s only one person who would ring him at this hour, and she’s the only person he’ll crawl out of bed for every time.

He snatches the phone up before it can go to voicemail. “Hello.”

“Hi, Dad.”

Harry sinks into a chair and slumps forward on the kitchen table, resting his head on his arm. “Hi, Bee,” he says. “How are you? How’s New York?”

He can hear the other girls laughing in the background and the television blaring. “It’s great. We’ve got so many fans here.”

“You’ve got a lot of fans everywhere.”

“That’s true,” Andy says. “It’s still so crazy to think about, people wanting my autograph or a picture with me? It’s weird and amazing— I’m sorry. I woke you, didn’t I?”

“Not really,” Harry says. “You’re alright though, yeah?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she says, and then she falls quiet. He hears her take a breath that’s almost steady, but shudders near the end. He sits up straight and waits. “I think when I come home tomorrow— I think I should have that talk with Louis.”

It takes him a second to remember and understand. They haven’t talked about this since August. Andy was always too busy, and Harry never wanted to push or pry. But here it is, like a forgotten sticky note tucked away in the pages of a journal.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “Because there’s no rush.”

“I know,” Andy says quickly. All the sounds have died around her. Her voice echoes as if she’s standing in the loo, and it’s reverberating off the walls. She always liked to sit in the tub and think. She’s written plenty of songs that way. “I told Kendra a few hours ago, and she took it really well.”

“Did you really?” he asks. “That’s so great, love. I’m very proud of you.”

“Thank you,” Andy says. He knows she’s smiling, although he still wishes he could see. It’s been three weeks since he’s seen her. Even when she’s in London, she’s doing promo for the album coming on the first of November. He’s given her as much space as he can, knowing how hectic things are right now. He has Belle and Sam and booze to pass the time, but he never stops missing her.

“So, will you be there? Can you meet me in London on Thursday?” she asks.

His wishes the chance to see her outweighed his anxiety. “This all seems so sudden,” he says, chewing his thumbnail. “You just told Kendra. Maybe you should pace yourself.”

“After I talk to Louis, I will. He’s been through this before. If there’s anyone who understands completely, it should be him. And I’m anxious to know how he’ll take it. I need to get this over with it.”

“That’s fair,” Harry says. “If you really want to—”

“I _really_ want to.”

“Then of course, I’ll be there,” Harry says. “Thursday, it is.”

Andy emits a tiny, excited squeal, which is enough to settle Harry’s doubts for right now. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he says again. “What brought all this on anyhow? Did you meet someone?”

“I’ve _seen_ lots of people. Lots of nice girls. But I’ve not talked to a single one.”

“Nervous?”

“Absolutely,” Andy says.

Harry laughs. “Your mum used to charge head first at any girl she liked. She was pretty smooth about it.”

“Wish she could teach me her ways.”

“You’re her daughter. I think they’ll come to you naturally,” Harry says. “Just give it time.”

Andy is quiet for a beat. “What about you? You went out with Troye, yeah? How’d that go?”

Harry hesitates. Seth’s beer is still visible in the living room. Harry’s hips are still sore. But to Andy, he says, “Didn’t meet anyone.” Not anyone worth mentioning. “But they were all really young anyhow.”

“Next time, then,” Andy says, sounding disappointed. That makes two of them. “I’m feeling a bit tired now. Might go to sleep.”

“Sleep well—”

“Oh, I forgot! I finally found someone to remaster you and mum’s songs. I’ve been talking with one of the guys from the studio, and he’s fixing them up for me. They sound much clearer, the ones I've herd so far.”

Harry's eyes widen. “That sounds really expensive..."

“It’s not at all. I’ve already got a few songs onto my mobile too. I was listening to ‘What Am I to Do’, and I love that one. Definitely my favourite. Could you teach it to me? I tried picking up some of the chords on my own, but mum's part is a bit hard.”

The mention of the song makes his throat tighten a bit. Her request makes his eyes and nostrils sting. “Yeah.” He coughs softly. “When you have a break, I’d love to.”

“Thank you,” she says. “I’ll see you soon then.”

“See you soon, babe,” Harry says, and he waits on the line until she hangs up.

†

In retrospect, the nine months of Cassie’s pregnancy and even the upper half of 2000 after Andy’s birth were one of the brightest periods of their lives. He and Cassie were unapologetically ham-fisted in their slow attempt at coming out. They never decided exactly how they’d do it, only that when the time was right, they’d do it together. They held onto the fragile haven of their pretend romance and had the privilege to ruminate freely about the day they were finally, terrifyingly themselves.

There was a point where they simply stopped caring, confident that everyone was too dense and blinded by Cassie’s pregnancy to suspect a thing or realise how heavily coded each and every move of theirs was.

They would scour charity shops for any and all rainbow paraphernalia. Harry owned a pair of sunnies with rainbow frames. Cassie had a rainbow crop top and trainers with a rainbow stripe along the bottom. They found a beaded rainbow skirt one day that they agreed to share.

They performed ‘What Am I to Do’ for the first time at Harry’s uncle’s wedding. Cassie’s verse went something like: “ _Girls, girls, girls, girls/What am I to do?/He says he wants me/but I’m looking at you._ ”

In between each line were wild riffs on their guitars, a riotous ruckus of her yellow Yamaha met with his black Les Paul.

As Cassie played out, Harry approached the mic, his eyes shut, his voice low and steady as he sang: “ _Boys, boys, boys, boys/What are we to do?/She’s climbing in your lap/and she hasn’t got a clue._ ”

That was in autumn of 1999 when Cassie’s stomach was noticeably swollen. Everyone was simply too distracted to hear the words coming out of their mouths. Cassie said afterwards that they should have titled the song, ’Look Here, I’m Gay’, and even then, she imagined no one would get it.

How reckless, they were. So secure in what they had in each other and in their music. So unconcerned about the harsh realities of raising a daughter while fully dependent on the support of their parents.

Andromeda Halle Styles, as beautiful and bright as she was-- she changed everything. Not at first or in a way they noticed. In fact, that summer after her birth, Cassie fell in love for the very first time with a girl named Alice. They met in June, and by September, it was safe to say Cassie was head-over-heels and ready to elope.

And then, in October, Paddy swept in like an early winter draft to make their future abundantly clear.

Harry had come by to see Andy that day and found the man waiting for him in the living room.

“Have a seat, H,” he’d said.

Harry did, positioning himself carefully on the couch. “Is Cassie here?”

“Diane took her and the baby for groceries,” Paddy said, lighting a cigarette, which he only ever dared to do when his wife was away. His lighter snapped shut. “Should be back soon.”

Harry nodded, folding his hands together in his lap.

“You believe God has a plan for all of us?” Paddy asked.

Harry licked his chapped lips. “Yes.”

“Good,” Paddy said. “He _always_ has a plan. Even when some things don't seem to have an order to them at all. In the chaos, we’ve got to remember that He has control.”

Harry didn't respond, not because he didn't agree. Sometimes he did. Sometimes he found it impossible to. When he got high with Cassie, he liked to think that there was divinity in chaos. He liked to imagine that God was a little mad and favoured disorder because it was simply more fun.

“I didn't think God’s plan for Pea would look like this,” Paddy said. “An unmarried mum at eighteen. It's not what I wanted for her, if I'm to be honest. But I think that God’s still got control over all this.”

The front door opened suddenly, and Cassie stepped inside, lugging the baby carriage along. “Hi,” she said to Harry. She glanced at Paddy, who was now stubbing his cigarette out and jamming the box beneath the cushion.

Diane came in after her, her arms full of groceries. “Hi, Harry darling,” she said. She sniffed the air, eyes narrowing on Paddy. She only gave a shake of her head and ushered Cassie toward the kitchen.

“Could I help?” Harry asked. His mind was on Andy mostly. He hadn't seen her in a day, which was starting to feel like a year.

“Just a second,” Paddy said, halting him. “Not finished yet.”

Harry sat back down.

“Now, I might not understand everything God has in store for you and Pea, but it's clear to me that you two are meant to be together.”

Harry’s hands had turned clammy. His heart was loud in his ears, blood whooshing like water against the shore. He wanted it to wash over him somehow and drag him into the sea.

“You’ve already got your family started,” Paddy said. “Now it's about time you took the next step and asked Pea to marry you.”

Silence.

Obviously, not the comfortable kind, but not the awkward kind either. It was just this vast stretch of nothingness like the inside of a black hole where silence and darkness weren’t an option, but a reality.

Harry couldn’t even look at him. He kept his head bowed. He was a dad now. He was a man. He should be able to speak for himself. He needed to speak for himself.

“I told you—”

That was Cassie, standing in the doorway. Who knew how long she’d been there? Maybe Paddy had seen her all along but decided he didn't care. “I asked you not to do this.”

Paddy ignored her. “It's the right thing to do, Harry. It’s what a God-fearing man would do.”

Andy had started crying in the kitchen, but neither Harry nor Cassie moved to console her. Both stood frozen, and Paddy’s eyes were made of ice.

“We’re both eighteen,” Cassie said. “You can't force us to get married.”

“No one’s forcing anyone,” Paddy said.

“Yes, you are,” Cassie snapped. “You said as much this morning. About how lucky we should be to have your support. How we won’t get anywhere if you aren’t supporting us. How we should do what’s best for the baby. You don’t give a damn about the baby.”

“Cass, that’s enough,” Diane said. She appeared at the other entry to the kitchen, bouncing Andy in her arms. “Don’t talk to your father that way.”

They were all silent. Cassie shook her head slowly. Paddy watched Harry. Harry couldn’t feel his tongue.

“I'm simply telling you to be a man and do the right thing,” Paddy said. He stood. “I know that you will.”

The old man left through the front door, most likely to have another smoke in his car. Harry sat there for a long time, long after he heard Cassie’s footsteps on the stairs and a second later, her door slamming shut. It was Diane that came to him with Andy in her arms.

“Would you look after her while I finish dinner?”

“Of course,” Harry said, numbly, wiping his palms against his baggy jeans.

Diane placed Andy carefully in his arms. She pet Harry's head and squeezed his shoulder. “We just want what's best for you two and the baby. We’ve seen what raising a child separately can do to their upbringing. Andy deserves her mum and dad in one home, looking after her.”

Andy peered up at him, her flushed face still streaked with tears. He was close to looking the same.

“We’ve talked to your parents. We’ll pay for everything. We’ll help you find a nice home, close to the university. We want to help you as much as we can, but this is important to us, H. I know you love her. I know you'll do what's best.”

She turned out to be wrong.

He never proposed or had a church wedding, but that wasn’t the best thing for them anyhow. He should have packed his things and Cassie's things and Andy’s things. He should have driven them as far from there as they could get with the 600 quid he had saved. But he didn’t do that either.

If it were just them, they might have run that night. But having a child had got them into this mess, and it was having a child that would ensure they stayed. They would have subjected themselves to homelessness but never Andy.

Gone were their daring, long-winded plans for coming out. Things had quickly turned dire, and Cassie turned reckless. She broke things off with Alice. She was avoidant and cold. There were times it looked like she would crumble, and Harry waited for the moment he’d need to catch her, but it never came.

She wrote this song, one of her last songs, titled ‘Death Wish’, and that should have been his first and only clue.

Or perhaps it should have been the day he came to see Cassie at home, a few days after her birthday. Andy was spread on the mattress in front of her, and she leaned forward, rubbing their noses together.

“I brought doughnuts,” Harry announced.

Cassie lifted Andy to her shoulder. “I thought you had a job interview today.”

“Finished already,” Harry said, sitting on the edge of her bed. He watched her, blowing raspberries into Andy’s plump cheeks.

There was a hollow set to her eyes as she looked at him. “What?”

“Where’ve you been?” Harry asked. “Haven’t seen you in almost two weeks.”

“I was around,” Cassie said.

Harry stared at Andy as he spoke. “Just worried you were lying in a ditch somewhere.”

“Would it matter if I was?” Cassie asked, handing Andy off to him and stood. She walked over to her dresser and lifted a tube of red lipstick lying across the surface. “We all die eventually. We’ve all got something killing us. We’ve all got our own brand of cancer.”

Harry stared at her, but she never looked at him. He might as well have not been there.

She smeared the lipstick on. “Me, you, even Andy,” she said, rubbing her lips together. “We’re all terminal anyhow.”

That was in December, and when the coroner marked her cause of death a month later, he’d left some things out of his report. He missed the fact that being a mother in an unhealthy environment had begun to take its toll on Cassie long before she sent her car careening into a tree in Birmingham. And that she never wanted to die. More than anyone, Cassie wanted to live long and free, but in the four months leading up to January 2001, there was a part of her dying already.

†

Louis offers them tea, and they both accept. Their interactions so far have all been stilted. He had them sit in the two leather armchairs in front of his desk, and they’ve done so stiffly for the past four minutes. Andy is more the stiff one. Harry keeps shifting around, tugging at his jeans. The tension is heavy in the air and hard to miss. Louis takes his seat opposing them and sits forward, folding his hands together.

After another slow sip of her tea, Andy places the cup and the saucer down carefully.

“Thank you for allowing me and my dad to meet with you,” she says. “I’m sure you’re busy.”

“Not too busy,” Louis says, straightening a stack of papers beside him. “Everything’s gone smoothly with the album, so I’ve got nothing to fuss about right now.”

“That’s good.” Her smile appears and fades quickly. She picks at the seam of her jeans. “I’m sorry again about what happened in LA with me running off and you having to come look for me.”

Louis’ brows crease. “I haven’t been holding a grudge, I promise.”

Andy gives him another small smile. “The thing is that I ran away because I was dealing with something quite serious and trying to make sense of it. And thanks to my dad, I think I have now, and I want to discuss it with you.”

Harry reaches out and wraps her hand up in his own.

Louis glances at their joined hands, and his weary smile dissipates entirely. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” she says. She glances into her lap and then at Harry, receiving a nod of encouragement from him. She clears her throat. “I don’t know how you’ll take this, but it’s just not something I want to hide anymore.”

Louis waits.

“I like girls,” Andy says. “And boys, too. But I only just realised about the girls part recently. So I guess that makes me bisexual or something. I think it’s best to go with that term.”

Louis’ eyes flicker to Harry. He does a great job of concealing it, but Harry knows he’s startled. His lips purse, allowing a small breath into the air, and he sits back in his seat. Andy squeezes Harry’s hand, her palm sweaty and slippery, and he squeezes back. They both wait as a full minute of silence passes.

“Congratulations,” Louis says finally. “It's a big deal to be able to say that. So, I’m proud of you. Not many people can do the same, especially not at such a young age or in the position you’re in. And so you should feel really proud of yourself too.”

Andy’s smile this time is genuine, dimples and all. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” Louis says. He's quiet for another moment, caught in deep thought as he twists a pen between his fingers. “When you say it’s not something you want to hide, did you mean from me or from the world?”

“Mostly from people close to me,” Andy says. “From the band.”

“And what about your fans?” Louis asks.

She hesitates. “I think eventually I’d like them to know too. I don’t want to hide forever.”

Louis nods. “None of us should have to,” he replies. He sets his pen down and takes another deep breath, reaching for his top drawer. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He extracts one, tucks it between his lips, and pauses. “Do either of you mind?”

Harry and Andy shake their heads.

Louis lights up, cupping his hand around a gleaming metal lighter with his initials engraved across the front. His face glows orange for a moment, and then the lighter snaps closed, and he exhales a quick cloud of thin smoke towards the ceiling.

“You’re actually the first artist to come out to me. Zayn is gay as well, but he was out to some degree before signing with me. I’ve never dealt with an artist coming out like this, especially not one so young. You’re about my age when I first signed with my label. So I understand how you must be feeling.”

He smokes again, cheeks hollowing so that the cut of his cheekbones sharpens further. “That being said, this isn’t going to happen the way it did for me.” He doesn’t look at Harry as he speaks. This all is meant entirely for Andy.

“When I was eighteen, I sat down with some folks in a room like this. By then, they suspected I wasn’t straight. And they started discussing all these clauses that I didn't fully understand, but what it came down to essentially was that I wouldn’t be allowed to come out so long as I was signed with them. Being gay didn’t cater to the boy band image. It didn’t sell. So they gave me girlfriends to pretend I was writing songs about because that’s what did. That’s what sold back then.

“They did this for years. Scrutinised every move I made. Told me to mind how I danced and walked and talked because it was all too flamboyant. And I was only _eighteen_. Imagine saying all that to someone so young. To someone who still considered themselves a kid. Hiding such a huge part of yourself— It changes you. It makes you cynical about the world. It makes it hard to trust others and trust yourself. Especially at that age. That’s the last thing anyone should have to do.”

Another drag on his cigarette. Harry and Andy are deathly quiet and tomb still. There’s a tremor in Louis’ fingers and lips that Harry probably isn’t supposed to notice. It’s as if Louis has exhausted himself, and Harry wants to open his mouth and tell him to rest.

“I just want you to know that I understand, perhaps better than anyone, what you're going through,” Louis says, finally. He crushes the burning end of his cigarette against his lighter. “I’d be lying if I said I knew how to handle this completely. I don’t. But I know what I’m not going to do, and that’s what was done to me. So, I’m asking you now how you want to go about this, and that’s what we’ll do. I’ll help you however I can. There are proper ways to do it, obviously. We have to make sure you stay safe. We want to control the media as much as possible. It’s not going to be easy at all. But you have a lot of support.” He glances at Harry and says, “You have your dad.”

Just as quickly as it comes, his gaze is gone. Harry feels oddly cold without it.

“You have your band. You have me,” Louis says. “And when the time comes, you’ll have your fans too.”

Harry is so busy watching him, marvelling over all his poise and grace, that he’s surprised by the shuddering breath he hears beside him followed by a stifled, aborted sob. Snapped from his trance, he looks at his daughter and finds her cheeks marked by a silent line of tears.

“Thank you,” she mumbles, lifting a hand to cover her face.

The corners of Louis’ eyes crinkle, and a smile spans the distance from ear to ear.

Harry releases Andy’s hand and wraps his arm around her shoulders, pulling her against his chest. He rests his head atop hers and strokes her back. He meets Louis’ gaze again and strangely feels like crying himself. His chest tightens, and a burst of heat rises beneath his skin. He thinks, inappropriately, of Louis’ soft smiling lips against his own many months ago, about his warm hands folded now atop his desk, how gentle they had been. He wonders if Louis ever thinks of the same. He looks away from him, which is best for everyone, and presses a kiss to Andy’s forehead.

Afterwards, she and Louis hug. He squeezes her, and for an awful moment, Harry has the audacity to feel jealous. Louis tells her again that he’s proud and happy for her. In the new year, they’ll hash out some finer details, but for now, her truth is out and safe with him.

Andy leaves for rehearsals in another part of the building, where the girls are already waiting for her. She hugs Harry goodbye. He lingers by the receptionist’s desk, glancing at Louis’ office door, which has been left ajar.

Then the door swings open, and Louis stands there, dressed in a tan trench coat and holding a long red umbrella like a cane against the floor.

“Are you leaving?” he asks.

Harry slides his hands into his pockets. “I’ve got nothing else to do around here.”

“Do you have to get back to the shop?”

“No, I’ve got Troye working,” Harry says. “He’s good on his own.”

Louis nods toward the lifts. “Let’s go have a drink,” he says and starts walking. “On me.”

Harry doesn’t think he could say no to him if he tried. “Alright.”

†

It’s raining, and the streets of London are hazy with fog and littered with fallen leaves. It’s not as cold as it’s been for the past two or three weeks, just enough to require a coat. Harry holds Louis’ large umbrella over their heads because he’s a bit taller, and they walk the pavement briskly, pressed close.

They stick to pints of some frothy Irish ale, ice cold and sweating bullets of water onto the oak tables of the local pub. It’s the same spot Harry came to with Andy and Niall after the signing over a year ago. So much has changed since he was here last. So much has stayed the same.

Louis is still as elusive as always, albeit for different reasons.

He’s twirling his thumbs around themselves. His eyes are downcast, causing his eyelashes to throw dim shadows over his cheekbones. Harry takes a long sip of his beer and wipes his top lip. He’s gearing up to ask him if he’s alright when finally, Louis speaks.

“So, how did I do?”

Harry smiles broadly. “I’d say you pretty much nailed it.”

Louis curls his fist in the air, and his whole face scrunches up, and somehow, it’s the best thing Harry’s seen all day. Louis lifts his pint and drinks deeply, his Adam’s apple rising and falling. He sets the glass down.

“I’ve sort of been waiting for an opportunity like this,” he says, taking a deep breath. “To undo what was done to me. I really think this is it.”

“I’m not so sure—” Harry quiets himself before he can finish, peering into his glass.

“Are you biting your tongue?” Louis asks, scowling. “That’s not your style.”

Harry sighs. “I just don’t know if you can undo something like that. I don’t think you should push yourself to undo something traumatic that’s happened to you. I think you can counteract it. You can use the experience towards good. You can grow and learn from it. But you can’t undo it. What’s done is done and in the past.”

Louis looks at him, frowning. Slowly, he lowers his gaze.

“But that's just me,” Harry says. “And I never know what I’m talking about.”

“I disagree,” Louis says. “I think you know what you’re talking about most of the time, even if no one quite gets it at first.”

Harry laughs softly. “Well, thank you then.”

“I’ve just never looked at it that way,” Louis says. “I’ve always imagined myself undoing the work of shitty producers by vowing not to be one. Makes me feel better about myself.”

“You should feel good about yourself all the time. And I’m not saying that in a cliche way. I mean, you specifically, you as the person you are— You have so many reasons to think the world of yourself.” The full intensity of Louis’ gaze is on him now, and he has to look away, drawing a breath. “I’m saying this because of what you did in there. I wouldn't be able to thank you enough for it, for how you handled things with her. How supportive and understanding you were. She needs that so much, especially from you as her producer.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Harry. It was the right thing to do.”

“But not everyone does the right thing,” Harry says. “You did, and that means a lot to us.”

“Then you’re welcome,” Louis says, lifting his glass again with a smile on his lips. Harry studies his jawline and cheekbones as he drinks. Sometimes he appears like he’s been crafted from marble. He replaces the glass on the table, nimble fingers curved around the handle. “She’s just an incredible kid. I told you before that I want to help her however I can.”

“I remember.” Harry exhales, his cheeks swelling with air momentarily. “And I hope you know— You're an incredible person yourself. I hope you know that. I hope people tell you so. Because they should.”

Louis smiles. When his head tilts down, a wisp of hair falls over his forehead. Harry wants to slide his fingers through it and tuck it behind his ear. He desperately needs to be on his way home.

“Thank you,” Louis says. “I don’t think enough people have said so.”

“Shame on them all,” Harry says. He empties his glass and contemplates ordering a second. “Are you still seeing Eric?”

“Surprisingly, yes.”

Harry pushes his empty glass away from himself. “And it’s going well?”

“I think so.”

He nods, drumming his fingers on the tabletop.

“How about you?” Louis asks. “Seeing anyone?”

Harry shakes his head and then: “I had a date last night, actually.” He clenches his jaw and curls his fingers into a loose fist. Imagine if his lips were sewn shut. How much simpler might his life be?

Louis rests his chin in his palm. “And how was it?”

“Promising, I thought. But, you know—” Harry leans back in his chair, stretching his legs forward. “Another one bites the dust.”

Louis isn’t smiling. It wasn’t Harry’s best attempt at humour anyway. He just looks at him, eyes roaming across his face, and Harry hates that. He hates how deeply, how carefully, how meticulously Louis looks at him.

“What happened?” Louis asks.

“He was too young. I met him through a younger friend, and I guess he thought I was a similar age, a university student or something, and I never tried to correct him. And when he realised I had a seventeen-year-old daughter, I think he pretty much lost interest,” Harry says. “And I didn't even care. Took him to bed anyhow.”

He reaches for his beer and realises he’s emptied the glass already. He chances a glance at Louis, feeling embarrassed for too many reasons.

“You're shaking your head,” he says. “Does that mean you're disappointed?”

“In you? Of course not,” Louis says. “In the men you meet? Absolutely.”

“It’s like I said: All the really good ones are taken. Or off-limits.” Harry scrutinises a rip in his jeans. “Or both.” With a small breath, he looks up and meets Louis’ gaze. There’s a small smile growing on his lips.

“I can be a bit self-centred sometimes,” Louis says. “You should be careful, or I’ll think you’re talking about me.”

“You’re definitely one of the good ones, Louis,” Harry says. “No doubt about that.”

They’re back to studying each other and the way Louis does it, it feels like his hands are on Harry already, or perhaps, that’s wishful thinking. He wouldn’t mind having that again, Louis’ rough fingertips pressing down on the softest part of him. He blames it on last night. His emotions are still a little bruised, and that’s made him vulnerable.

Harry swipes his phone off the table top and sits forward, pushing it into his back pocket. “I really need to get going.”

“Now?”

“I just remembered some things I need to do at the shop,” Harry says, standing. “So, I’ll see you.”

“Will you be alright?” Louis asks as Harry pulls his jacket on.

All that concern would get him into trouble someday. He might end up causing the wrong men to fall for him. Men who’d made promises to their daughters, for example.

“I’m good,” Harry says. “Thank you for the beer and for Andy. I’ll see you at the album party.”

“Can’t wait,” Louis says, and he smiles, causing deep creases to form at the corners of his eyes. Looking like the fault lines and the fissures forming in Harry’s wayward heart.

†

“Thriller Michael is officially dead,” Harry says.

Andy looks at him with such disdain he almost expects her to flip him a bird. His mum would have a fit if she ever saw, just like that time she overheard Andy use the word ‘cunt’ while on the phone with a friend. She was only thirteen.

“I’m in a good mood,” Andy reports. “Which is why I’m choosing not to respond to you.”

Harry takes a seat on her bed, swinging his black cape to the side. “You know,” he begins. “I picture you as more of a Sporty Spice, to be honest.”

“Rose is the sportiest,” Andy says. “She was very adamant about being Sporty Spice.”

Just then, Petal the Chihuahua darts past the door. Harry slaps a hand to his chest in a moment of terror, certain they’re being invaded by rodents. Andy laughs and takes a seat at her desk. A large vanity mirror is positioned on its surface. She chooses one of the various shades of lipstick spilled in front of her.

“You’re not even ginger,” Harry says.

Andy gestures to the red wig atop her dresser. “Not a problem,” she says. “It was between Ginger and Baby Spice, and I am absolutely not a Baby Spice.”

Harry throws both hands into the air. He’ll have to concede on that point. “Do you have tequila here?”

“Kendra probably does,” Andy says. “You can go ask.”

Harry thinks that’d be a bit creepy, him asking around the flat for alcohol. Rose would probably tell Rachel, and Rachel would tell the other parents. Maybe the gossip would even make its way back to Louis somehow. _There goes Andy’s father who’s always drinking._ He’s got to cut back honestly. He’s been under an increase of stress since last August. The past year has seen him with an empty nest, a jaded heart, and unyielding bouts of worry for his only child. But he can’t take alcohol for a crutch much longer.

Andy looks at him. “I think there’s wine in the fridge if you want.”

“I’ll wait until we get to the club,” Harry says, playing with the little tassels on Andy’s duvet. She’s done a good job decorating the space since she moved in a year ago. It looks exactly like her room at home once did, if not slightly more mature. The girls just recently decided to renew their lease too.

Realistically, Harry knew she wouldn’t move back in with him, but there was a small, selfish part of him that had hoped.

He watches her, lifting a tube of mascara. “Are you excited?” he asks.

“I guess,” she says. She dresses her eyelashes and reaches for blush. “I’m also really nervous, you know? That people won’t like it. I’ve felt ill all day. Just want to get this over with.”

“Not going to throw up, are you?”

She draws a breath. “I don’t think so. But if I have to, I’ll use your cape as a paper bag or something.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Harry says.

She looks at him through the mirror and sends back a smile.

“I’m thinking I’ll probably be drunk tonight, and Niall will have to cart me back to the hotel,” Harry says. “And tomorrow morning, I'll be dead to world—”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Andy says, as she applies blush to her cheeks.

He ignores that. “So when the album drops, I won’t be awake to scream about it with you right away,” he says, taking a shaky breath. Andy sets her blush down and turns to him. “So before we go to this party and I get drunk, I just want you to know again that I’m so ridiculously proud of you and everything you’ve accomplished with these girls, and your mum would be too.”

Andy smiles, both dimples deeply carved in her cheeks. “Here comes the emotion,” she says exasperatedly, standing and crossing the short distance to her bed. She plops down and throws her arms around his middle.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” she says quietly.

Harry rubs her back. “I know.”

“That was really humble,” she says.

“I’m a very humble person.” He squeezes her. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” she says. She draws back after another firm squeeze. “Alright. I can’t cry and ruin my makeup.” She stands and straightens her spine. “How do I look?”

“Maybe put the wig on first?” he suggests.

“Right.” She gets the wig and tugs it on. She adjusts it for several minutes, pulling it this way and that. Finally she turns to him, both arms out to her sides.

Harry doesn’t know where she snagged the mini-dress decorated with the British Flag or the knee-high red leather boots, but he’d say she’s got the costume down. “Think you look like Ginger Spice,” he says.

She claps her hands together and switches to two thumbs-up. She checks herself in the mirror one last time, tucks the gold bee of her necklace beneath the neck of her dress, grabs her phone and gives him a nod. They head to the living room, where Kendra is waiting with one of her best friends from home.

“You make a lovely Scary Spice,” Harry tells her.

Kendra touches her space buns. “You think?” Her smile dissipates. “Who are you supposed to be?”

“I’m Magneto,” Harry says. “As played by Sir Ian McKellen.”

Kendra’s gaze sweeps his form from head to toe.

“He’s the villain in X-Men,” Andy says. “Please tell me you know what X-Men is.”

“Of course I do,” Kendra says, rolling her eyes. “You don’t really look like Magneto, though, Harry.”

“Well, thank you,” Harry says. “I should have stuck to being a cowboy.”

“You look fine. Come on,” Andy says, grabbing his arm. “We’re all going to be late.”

Gemma and Niall are waiting in this behemoth of a car parked on the kerb. She’s dressed as the Corpse Bride, and he’s a cross between a sailor and a pirate (meaning a naval uniform complemented by a random eye patch).

There’s more than enough room for all of them to pack inside. The girls have their own personal security detail as of two months ago. The man who guards Andy is named Frank, which Harry still finds to be a hilarious coincidence. The first time he met Frank, he asked if he’d ever seen the Whitney Houston film called _The Bodyguard_ and if he knew that Kevin Costner’s character was named Frank as well. He’s not sure if his humour was fully appreciated.

When they’re all seated, another security person gives a nod to the driver and they’re off.

The album launch party is held at Annabel’s in Mayfair. The exterior is set up with the same red velvet rope blocking off the entrance. There’s a line of cars parked right across the street in front of Berkeley Square and paps, to whom those cars belong, waiting nearby. Their massive cameras appear like mosquitos ready for feeding.

Security steps out first, arms extended to their sides to form a barrier. Andy and Kendra take each other’s hand and exit the car. The lights explode so brightly, Harry worries they’ll blind her. The shouts might deafen her. The girls keep their heads down simply so they can see, heading towards the doors of the club and disappearing inside. It all happens quickly. Harry steps out with Gemma and Niall behind him, and in seconds, they’re sheltered inside.

The space is dimly lit by pink and blue spotlights and wall sconces. The tables spread out helter-skelter have small lamps and tea lights. At their centres, there are tall bouquets with fuschia roses and black orchids. Harry likes the arrangements so much, he might have to try them in his own shop. The place is nearly packed already with more guests trickling in behind them. A stage hosting a solitary DJ is up ahead. There’s a gleaming drum kit behind him, a few mic stands, and the girls’ guitars all lined up neatly. To the right is the bar, already clustered by people. All in all, it’s perhaps the best party Harry’s ever been to, and it’s hardly even started.

“This is incredible,” Gemma says beside him.

“You know Lady Gaga played here?” Niall says.

“And Diana Ross,” Harry adds. “We have to act natural.”

Gemma nods. “I think it’ll help if I’ve got a drink.”

“Good thinking,” Harry says, resting his hands on his sister’s shoulders and steering her toward the bar. One of the security guys gives up on directing them to their table. They occupy a space at the bar, huddled in a tight circle, and order shots first with whiskey sours to follow.

“Harry.”

Gemma taps him on the shoulder and points, just as he hears the person call to him. He turns and finds Rachel standing there, dressed as a vampire. No costume would have been more fitting.

“Hi,” he says, greeting her with a cordial half-hug.

“Happy Halloween,” they say to each other.

“We were just headed to the table,” Harry says. “Not sure where it is.”

“I can help,” Rachel says. “Follow me.”

She leads them to their table near the stage. Harry spots a man sitting at the table closest to them, with his head down and his gaze on his mobile. There’s something familiar about his profile but Harry can’t see enough of him to know what.

Mercy’s parents, her brother and his wife are sat with them as well, along with Kendra’s dad, Mike, and a man who introduces himself as Rachel’s fiancé. Honestly, Harry hates to compare himself to others, but what’s he doing wrong if Rachel can get engaged and he’s still alone?

“You should go socialise,” Gemma says to him, quietly. “I see good-looking men here.”

Harry gives a cursory glance around the room. It’s too dark to see which men she’s talking about. Instead, he spots a brunette woman standing close by, wearing a green sequinned dress. He turns back to Gemma. “Louis’ sister is here,” he says. “I’m going to say hi.”

“Not quite who I meant, but sure,” Gemma says, standing. “Niall and I will be at the food bar.”

Harry waits until they leave and lifts his glass from the table. He draws his cape around his body to ensure he doesn’t trip. Fizzy is standing with another guest. As Harry grows closer, he spies leaves sewn onto her dress and surmises that she must be Poison Ivy or Tinkerbell.

She happens to look his way, and their eyes meet. She smiles, excusing herself from her company and meets him halfway. “Harry,” she says, leaning in for a hug and an amiable kiss to his cheek. “Nice to see you. How’ve you been?”

“Can’t complain,” Harry says. “You?”

“Well, I’m moving to New York in another two months,” she says. “Decided to study abroad as part of my Doctorate programme.”

Harry widens his eyes. “Congrats,” he says. “Your family must be proud. I’m sure they’ll miss you a lot.”

“I’m sure, but they’re all living their own lives and doing their own thing. It’s really time I did mine.”

“Good luck to you,” Harry says. “You’ll be great.”

“Thank you,” Fizzy says. She bites into her bottom lip and narrows her eyes, fingers drumming on the sides of her glass. “So— I’d really like to say something to you, but my brother would murder me if he knew I did.”

“I won’t tell him,” Harry says.

Fizzy glances around. “I don’t know what happened between you two,” she begins, quietly. Harry has to lean forward a bit to hear her over the music. “But I was under the impression when we first met that you liked him.”

Harry straightens his spine, his mouth parting and then sealing shut.

Fizzy’s eyes dart between either of his, seeking and searching. “And he made it clear back then that he liked you,” she says. “I know it’s complicated for you both and perhaps a bit unprofessional, but he spoke of you, and he hardly speaks of anyone. I just thought that maybe there was a misunderstanding or something. And I wanted you to know that he likes you, and that he told me so.”

It’s quite possible that Harry isn’t breathing at all. He knows his skin is flushed but camouflaged by the dim coloured lighting. He knows his heart is racing. He’s just not sure if he’s drawn a breath since Fizzy started speaking.

“I know it’s not my place to say this, but I told myself that if I saw you again, I’d say something. I don’t want you to feel like I’m pressuring you to do anything at all. I just think Louis has trouble sometimes being open and honest, and maybe that was the problem with you, and I just want to help. I just want to see him happy.”

Harry licks his parched lips and swallows. “What about Eric?”

“Who?”

Harry pauses, reading the honest confusion on her face. He backpedals. “I just thought he was seeing someone.”

“No one that I know of,” Fizzy says.

Harry tries to come up with a hundred responses to that intel and each one dies on his tongue. In the end, he says, “Thank you for telling me.” Fizzy looks hopeful, and he feels awful as he speaks again. “There wasn’t a misunderstanding, actually. We just decided we were better off as friends.”

Fizzy nods, lips turning down. “Got it,” she says. “Well, I tried. We can pretend this whole talk didn’t happen. Not just because I’m embarrassed, but also because I can't have him finding out.”

“It’s forgotten,” Harry promises.

“Congrats to your daughter, by the way,” she says. “I’m really excited to hear the album.”

“Thank you—”

Louis steps right into the space beside his sister. He’s dressed as Heath Ledger’s Joker, face powdered a pale white, hair tinted green and combed back. He’s got a white button-up on striped with purple lines, sleeves rolled to his elbows and an emerald-coloured vest overtop. All in all, he’s managed to take a terrifying costume and appear just as devastatingly attractive as always.

“Nice,” Harry says, nodding approvingly.

Louis grins and straightens his tie. “Thank you. And who are you supposed to be?”

Harry gives him a look. “I’m Magneto. Specifically in _X-Men: First Class_ when he doesn’t have the helmet in his old age.”

Louis tilts his head. “Yeah, I can see it.”

“Finally,” Harry says. He shouldn’t have assumed that the all black suit, the black boots, and the cape would be enough. He’d combed his hair back too, but perhaps he should have tried a grey wig.

He and Louis are just standing there, smiling at one another like fools, and then Harry looks at Fizzy and finds her already staring.

Oblivious, Louis nudges her shoulder. “Drink’s low,” he says. “Want another?”

“Yes. Thank you,” Fizzy says.

Louis looks at Harry. “Coming?”

Harry glances at his drink and finds it’s shrunk down fast. It must be the nerves. “Sure,” he says to Louis.

They don’t talk much on their way to the bar. It’s hard for them to manoeuvre through the crowd and do so. Louis puts in both of their drink orders, and they’re pulled into a talk with Rachel, Mercy’s mum, Mercy and Rose, and two directors for their upcoming music video. Fizzy wanders up beside Louis and accepts her drink. Andy joins them too, along with Kendra. She steps close to Harry, and he loops his arm around her shoulders. They’ve got a nice big cluster by the bar now and fresh drinks. They’re quiet while the girls talk about what recording has been like and how excited they are to get started on their music video and their film. They talk about touring, and Harry, of course, feels anxious.

As if their group isn’t large enough, another guest joins them, placing himself quietly between Louis and Harry. It’s the man Harry noticed earlier at the table near to his own, costumed as Captain Jack Sparrow, but better known as Eric, all the way from sunny California.

Harry smiles and looks away without comment. It's a feat, keeping his eyes trained in another direction from then on. Lucky for him, two men step up to the stage and begin repositioning the guitars and mic stands. Louis notices too. Throwing the rest of his drink, he tells the girls, “That's our cue.”

He makes his way to the stage with the girls trailing behind him. They linger at the foot of the stage while Louis climbs the short steps up and approaches the mic.

“Good evening,” he says, waving and smiling brightly. “And Happy Halloween. You all look lovely…and terrifying, some of you. Thank you for putting your best or worst faces on and being here tonight. I see we’ve got Luke Skywalker over here. And in the back corner, Captain America. Very nice. Personally, I think my favourite costumes are the ones that scare the piss right out of you. Like Donald Trump sitting there by the bar. Horrific.”

There's a trickle of laughter around the room. Harry heads back to his table and takes a seat.

“So, as you all know, in about three hours, The Wonderlands are going to have their very first album released worldwide.” He pauses for the subsequent applause. “I'm very proud of them. I know how hard they've worked and how far they've come. For those of you who have heard the whole album or heard the singles, you know like I know that what they've done is fucking brilliant.”

The guests applaud again, Harry and his table included. Niall, of course, chooses to whistle.

“But before we get there, it's only customary for them to come up and play some songs for you. I hope you enjoy them. And don't forget to buy the album tomorrow. These are The Wonderlands,” Louis says, leading the audience in another round of applause as the girls mount the stage and greet Louis one-by-one with a hug.

Andy lifts her guitar strap over her head and steps up to the mic. “This is a little embarrassing, but I think Louis got our name wrong there,” she says, glancing off to the side where Louis is descending the stairs. “We’re clearly the Spice Girls, Lou.”

Louis stands off to the side, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Sorry,” he calls to them.

“I guess we’ll forgive you,” Mercy says into her mic.

“We’re missing a Baby Spice, though,” Rose says. “I think we said we’d elect someone, yeah?”

“We did,” Andy says, nodding. “And I think we just made a decision. Kenny, can we get a drumroll, please?”

Kendra delivers on her request.

“Louis Tomlinson, everyone!” Andy announces. “No surprise there. Louis is officially our Baby Spice.”

Louis tilts his head back, presses the back of his hand to his mouth, and laughs, which is perhaps, one of the most beautiful things Harry has seen all night. “I'm honoured,” Louis says, wearing a toothy grin. Harry expects the whole room to be as endeared as he is in this moment. They have to be.

“Good. Now, that that's taken care of,” Andy says. “Good evening, everyone. We’re the Spice Girls. Also known as The Wonderlands. And this is ‘Won’t Stop’.”

Kendra crashes her drumsticks into her cymbals. Andy zips her hand across her guitar fret and puts her mouth right against the mic.

“ _Momma never taught me second chances/Daddy only ever mentioned firsts/It's down to the wire now, baby/I'm watching you, show me how you work._ ”

Another crash of the cymbals. Andy swings her hips to one side, curling her fingers around her mic.

“ _Can't stop even for a minute/Won't stop even if it hurts/We’ve got one chance now, baby/Don't stop ‘til you show ‘em how it works._ ”

Around her, the girls whisper, “ _Won’t stop._ ” A tap of the cymbals. “ _Don't stop._ ”

They play three songs altogether — another two called ‘Revolve’ and ‘Burn Brighter’ — and they sound incredible. They're all laughing together and jumping around and playing hard. Andy’s high notes ring out beautifully, and sometimes her voice takes on a brittle quality that makes it so unique. Their guests are all clapping, dancing and cheering. Harry’s on his feet for the entirety of it, even when he’s worn himself out. The girls finish, damp with sweat and out of breath like everyone else.

Andy waves to the room. “Thank you, Louis, again for all you've done for us. Thanks to all of you for being here,” she says. She waves in the direction of Harry's table. “Thanks, Dad. I love you.”

Harry rests his hand on his chest, which is the only way for him to articulate how he feels right then.

The rest of the band shout their love to family and friends and blow kisses.

“Buy the album tomorrow!” Andy says finally. “Please and thank you.”

They bow and depart the stage, allowing the DJ to return and start up his music again.

Harry finally has a chance to head to the food bar after getting pulled into a discussion with the other parents and Rachel about the album. He slips away during a lull in the conversation to load a plate up with whatever he sets his eyes on. He’s sticking a quiche in his mouth as he moves along the buffet-style setup when someone appears in his path.

“Hi,” the man there says. “You’re Andy’s father, right?”

Harry's one track mind is at it again. He's starving but there's now a very attractive gentleman looking at him, and he can only focus fully on one thing.

“That I am,” Harry says. “And you’re—?”

“David,” the man says, extending his hand for a shake.

Harry takes his hand. “Harry. Nice to meet you.”

David’s hand around his own is firm, marked by a purposeful but gentle squeeze. Harry smiles as they release each other and looks away, popping another quiche into his mouth.

“Just wanted to come introduce myself,” David says. “I might be working with the girls on their film.”

“Oh,” Harry says, voice muffled. “That's exciting. Are you excited?”

“I am. The girls are amazing,” David says. “Andy, especially.”

“Are you only saying that because you're talking to me?”

“No,” David says. “Although if it's scoring me some points, that's great too.”

Harry lifts his brows. “That's the goal then, is it?”

“Honestly?” David says. “Yes, it is.”

Harry smiles. This is rare. Here’s a man who comes fully aware that Harry is a dad. He has a dusting of grey in his neatly-trimmed beard, kind eyes behind his glasses and a nice smile. This could be promising, Harry is a little wary of entertaining him. He swears everyone here is an industry big-wig. He might say the wrong thing to the wrong person, if he gets drunk enough, and Andy would never let him hear the end of it.

Harry is struck yet again by another distraction when he glances to his right and sees Louis, of all people, looking back at him. He doesn't know how long he's been standing there, but now that Harry's taken notice of him, he can't look away.

“Sorry,” David says. “You were clearly trying to eat.”

“No,” Harry says, blinking a few times. “Well, yes, but I don't mind. You could come sit with me if you want?”

“Of course,” David says, eagerly.

He follows Harry to his table and takes a chair beside him much to Gemma and Niall’s surprise. Harry eats while David discusses his concepts for the upcoming film. He asks Harry questions about Andy and even her mum. It's nice, and it passes the time. Harry doesn't realise how late it is until Kendra’s parents announce they're leaving. David hands him his business card.

“Ring me if you'd like to get lunch or dinner sometime,” he says. “Or you could text me? So I have your number?”

“I'll do that,” Harry says easily. “Are you leaving?”

“I promised a few people I'd speak to them,” David says. “But it was good to meet you, Harry.”

“Same to you.” Harry watches him leave, ignoring his sister and Niall. He stands before they can ask questions and heads to the loo.

He sees Louis, stood at the sink, as soon as he steps inside. There’s another man beside him, talking so quickly there’s no way Louis understands a word he’s saying. Louis looks at him through the mirror. Harry turns and finds the first available cubicle.

The man is just wrapping up his monologue when Harry finishes and begins to wash his hands. The talkative one leaves. Louis turns, cups his hands beneath the water, and pats his face. Another man from the cubicle beside Harry’s exits and leaves the loo without washing his hands at all. Harry cringes, meeting eyes with Louis, who laughs.

“Hope I haven’t shaken his hand at some point tonight,” Louis says.

“You have the good sense to wash your own hands,” Harry says. “Think you’ll be fine.”

Louis smiles, grabbing a paper towel and drying his face. “I’m heading up to the balcony for a smoke,” he says. “Want to come?”

“Didn’t know there was a balcony.”

“You’re not supposed to,” Louis says.

“Should have said it was a secret balcony,” Harry says. “Count me in.”

Louis leads him out of the loo and down a corridor and through a door that’s very clearly marked ‘Employees Only’. They take a spiral staircase up to the second floor and then a small corridor to a set of double doors. Beyond those doors is the balcony.

It’s terribly cold out, but neither of them care enough to turn around.

Harry inhales. “I needed the fresh air.”

“Sorry about that,” Louis says, waving his cigarette that’s now lit and leaking smoke from its burning end.

“I don’t mind,” Harry says, leaning his elbows onto the railing. “You seem tense.”

“I’m fine,” Louis says curtly.

They’re quiet for a moment.

“Saw you hitting it off with David Grier,” Louis comments quietly, exhaling towards the sky.

Harry’s stomach does a nosedive. “I don’t know much about him, but he seems nice.”

“He is,” Louis says. “Good man.”

Suppose that’s Louis’ unsought stamp of approval. “And how are things with your American?” Harry asks.

“My American,” Louis repeats, grinning. “Not bad.”

Harry takes a second to work up his nerve. It’s harder than he thought. In the end, he has to throw himself into it. “Does Fizzy like him?” he asks. “I think I saw them talking earlier.”

Louis shrugs. “I haven’t told her about him.”

Harry stares at him for too long, although Louis is looking down, flicking the ash from his cigarette. “Does she usually like your boyfriends?”

Louis looks at him. “I never really mention them.”

Harry swallows, trying to stop that incessant tingling in his throat. He should have brought his drink with him. He needs it desperately now. They stand in silence for another second or so. “So, what’s troubling you?”

Louis sighs, a puff of smoke leaving his mouth. “Remember what I said about fake people?” He points towards the door with his cigarette cradled securely between his fingers. “Lots of them in there.”

Harry would assume as much. Everyone’s been kind to him, but he gets that feeling like that's only the case because they feel obligated.

“May I?” Harry asks, nodding towards the cigarette.

Louis halts as he’s bringing it to his lips, and then after a beat, he extends the cig to him. Harry accepts it and tucks his lips around the end neatly. He has a drag and hands it back. Louis’ eyes linger on him for a while.

“Did something happen in particular?” Harry asks.

“Not really,” Louis says. He smirks. “I did have someone ask if I was seeing Josephine Skriver. Three months ago, we spoke once at a club in Paris, got papped unintentionally, and the papers had a blast about it. So now people assume we’re secretly dating.”

“Do you usually deny rumours like that?”

“It’s a waste of time and effort to. If I deny one story, they’ll expect me to deny the next one.”

Harry wants to ask what’s keeping him from coming out. He finds it odd that Louis would be so supportive of his artists doing so, but unwilling to do it himself. The process takes time. Harry knows that. But Louis is thirty-six with apparently not much to lose. What is it that’s keeping him?

Louis offers the cigarette to him, and Harry takes it gratefully.

“Who are the notoriously fake ones? The ones I should avoid?”

Louis laughs. “Oh, God. We’d be here all night.”

“I don’t mind,” Harry says, smiling. He hands the cigarette back.

“Did you see the man dressed as Fred Flintstone?” Louis asks. “He’s a miserable old fart always blowing smoke up his own arse or up mine. He’s been trying to get me in on his new label for months.”

Harry grins.  “Fred Flintstone would.”

“Good point. There’s also this woman named Mira, dressed as Mrs Smith from _Mr. and Mrs. Smith_ , which means she’s just got a black dress on and a toy gun. She’s the worst of them. She works for _The Independent_ and she’s always looking for an exclusive. If she asks how your day’s going, look the fuck out. She’s priming to write an article about you.”

“Has she written articles about you?”

“Of course,” Louis says. “It’s why I’ve been dancing circles around her all night. Also, the man dressed as a bumble bee? Should have come dressed as a snake. Would’ve been more appropriate. He talked a lot of shit about me on Twitter one time and then sent an email to apologise.”

“Jesus,” Harry hisses. “They all sound awful.”

“That’s why I’m up here with you,” Louis says. “Was that your sister, by the way? The one dressed as the Corpse Bride?”

“Yes.” Harry smiles, as he usually does when speaking of her. “I’ll introduce you when we head back inside.”

“I’d like that,” Louis says. They stand in silence for a minute longer. Louis finishes off his cigarette, tosses it to the ground, and grinds the toe of his shiny shoe into it.

“Should we step back into the ring?” he asks.

No. Harry wouldn’t mind staying out here with him all night, freezing their bollocks off, and still refusing to leave. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him, only that it’s precarious and foolish and never seems to end. He’ll think he’s made progress where Louis is involved, only to be thwarted again.

“I think we probably should” Harry says. He follows Louis back inside and they disperse. Harry returns to Niall and Gemma.

“Where were you?” Gemma asks.

Harry spots Louis, talking unfortunately to Mrs Smith. He looks towards Harry’s table, and they share a secret smile across the room.

“Never mind,” Gemma says. Harry looks at her. “I can smell the smoke on you.”

He doesn’t clarify that he only shared a cigarette. He spies Eric joining Louis a moment later, and he can’t stop looking at them. He has another drink, another shot, and some concoction Niall orders for him. He takes to the dance floor and dances into midnight.

None of it works. Even much later, when he’s leaving and Gemma has an arm around his waist, steering him to the car, he’s looking for him. Even when he’s being tossed into his hotel room bed and Niall is shuffling in beside him, he’s hoping Louis didn’t have to force smiles or cater to fake people for too long.

“I'm in trouble, Niall,” he murmurs. He remembers David’s card, which he left on the table, and there's no time to feel sorry because he immediately thinks again of Louis.

Niall pats him on the back. “You’ll be better in the morning.”

†

**DECEMBER 2017**

If it weren’t so cold and there weren’t lights strung up all over Covent Garden, Harry might believe that December hadn’t come at all. But seasons feel like seasons due to the very circumstances and cues surrounding them. Christmas is Christmas for the weather, the lights, the music, the trees, and the constant stream of shoppers. He can see and feel and hear all those things, but still, it doesn’t _feel_ like Christmas — or Christmas Eve, technically. And that has a lot to do with him being in London alone instead of at his parents’ home with his family.

Andy is currently skiing in the Swiss Alps. She’s been there with the band for the past week and won’t fly in to London until the morning. His mum was in a complete strop about the idea, and now, Harry wishes he’d listened to her and been more insistent about the girls going on holiday after the New Year.

He considered going home by himself. Andy even told him to do so, except that she also proposed driving her new car from London to Holmes Chapel when she got in. She bought a Mini Cooper only two weeks ago. It came in a darling cream colour that didn’t reflect how malicious and menacing it seemed to him.

In the morning, he’ll pick her up from the airport, and they’ll make a nice, safe drive home together well before Christmas dinner.

He replaces his cinnamon dolce latte on the table of an overcrowded Starbucks and checks his watch for the time. He’s come to London with ulterior motives. He didn’t delete his Twitter like he’d planned months ago. That’s the thing he’s learned about social media: Once you’re in, it’s hard to get back out.

He’s followed by a slew of fan accounts for The Wonderlands, all of whom thank him profusely whenever he follows them back. Fan accounts of the band are almost always fan accounts of Louis Tomlinson or One Direction. So, it’s thanks to them that he knows about a small live concert in progress at the Westfields in Stratford, hosted by BBC Radio 1, and featuring Louis as a guest commentator.

Harry secures his scarf around his neck and replaces his peaked cap on his head. He gathers his two shopping bags and his latte and allows the eager couple standing nearby to take his table as soon as he’s out of the way.

He buys another pendant at Tiffany’s for Andy’s necklace with the cross. It’s a tiny pick with his and Cassie’s initials. Andy adores sentimental tokens like that, and he couldn’t think of anything better. With his last present taken care of, he gets into his Jeep and heads to Stratford.

Harry doesn’t intend to actually talk to him, but he’s aware of what seeing Louis does for his mood. He knows that Louis has a knack for taking ordinary nights and making them memorable in some small or big way. That’s all he wants.

He’s thought of him every day for the past two months. He’s kept up to date with topics concerning him. Louis has been writing music lately. He’s been to a few football games. Hosted a dinner for children on behalf of the Make-A-Wish Foundation. Shaved twice and got a haircut.

It’s not like he’s gone out of his way to learn these things. Social media makes it too easy. And too hard to stop. But he has to, at this point. It’s taken a long time for him to put a name to what he’s feeling and doing. If he were seventeen or eighteen, he might call it a crush. But in his adulthood, he thinks of it as pining…and longing, and that means he desperately, critically needs to stop.

In the New Year, that’s first on his agenda. But for right now, there’s a show he needs to get to.

Westfields is rightfully packed when he makes it there. Plenty of teenagers and adults alike crowd the atrium. He finds one of only a few spots near the back, while onstage, a girl he might have seen on TV is performing. She follows up an acoustic cover of What Makes You Beautiful with a cover of White Christmas, which are both terribly typical choices, but at least, she sounds amazing. When she’s finished, she waves to the crowd and gives a little bow towards the wings of the stage, which is when Harry finally notices the table there and two figures sitting behind it.

Just then, the spotlights redirect towards them, and of course, it’s Louis and Nick Grimshaw of the Radio 1 Breakfast Show. In front of them on the table are mics. Louis leans forward to speak into his own, bracing his elbows on the table.

“That was Ashlee Norris, whose album, _Expressions_ , just released about two weeks ago. Really great girl and great music. Nice ode to the band there too. Thank you.”

“I wish she’d played that one song,” Nick says, snapping his finger. “What was it called?”

“Clearly you’re not all that crazy about it if you can’t remember,” Louis says.

Nick ignores him. “I remembered this morning because I put it on while I was in the shower.”

“Bit too much info, Nicholas.”

“That I sing in the shower?” Nick says, scowling. “Do you not sing in the shower? I think everyone here would really love to know.”

Louis grins. “I sing in the shower. I throw myself private concerts.”

“Definitely too much info,” Nick says. “Is it acapella or do you have someone sitting outside the door on instrumentals?”

“My cat likes to play the drums sometimes, yeah,” Louis says.

Everyone laughs, Nick included.

“We’ll have to come back to that,” Nick says. “If you’re just tuning in, this is Grimmy here at BBC Radio 1’s live Christmas concert with our special guest, Louis Tomlinson—” The audience starts screaming just at the mention of his name. “We’re at Westfields in Stratford, and there’s still about an hour left to come out if you haven’t already. We’re giving away lots of free pressies. And asking Louis a ton of questions. And we’ve got some more…swell performances to come.”

“Swell,” Louis repeats. “Lovely word choice.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Nick says. “And since you’re being so kind, we’re going to throw some more questions at you now.”

“Sounds great,” Louis says.

“So, for those who’ve just tuned in, the way this works is that we’ve got this beach ball here,” Nick says and he picks the ball up from the floor. “And Louis or I will give this a toss into the crowd while the music plays for thirty seconds. The folks in the crowd have to bounce the ball when it comes to them. And whoever the ball is with when the music cuts off is who gets to ask Louis a question.”

“Sort of like extreme volleyball crossed with musical chairs,” Louis says.

“Exactly,” Nick says. “Okay, so let’s get that music going.”

And of course, the song of choice is ‘Raise Hell’ by The Wonderlands. Harry smiles, nodding his head to the beat. He forgets the purpose of the music in the first place. His attention shifts to Louis, who seems to be enjoying the music too. The chorus is on its last line when the whole thing cuts off abruptly and he is quite literally backhanded with this rainbow-coloured beach ball. He blinks and lifts a hand in front of himself as a delayed gesture of self-defence. It’s not even that it hurt. He’s more stunned than anything, especially that his life has quickly dissolved into a scene from a trashy romantic comedy.

“It looks like our beach ball has just blinded someone,” Nick reports.

Harry feels the glare of a spotlight on him, and the heat of it turns his face pink. What are the odds? He tries to do some brief mental maths. Out of all the eager folks huddled around him, what are the odds that he’d find himself in this position?

“Someone else has the beach ball, but we’re going to have to allow this man a question too because we nearly killed him,” Nick says. “Can we get the mic to him, please?”

Suddenly, there’s a man dressed in black wearing a headset, shoving a mic into his hand. Nothing has ever been more cliche than this moment right here when he looks to the stage and meets gazes with Louis across the distance of the atrium. Louis’ mouth parts slightly before turning into a smile.

“What’s your name, sir?” Nick says.

Harry lifts a hand to wave. “I’m Harry.”

Someone nearby has recognised him. He hears them murmuring Andy’s name, but he can’t look at them, and he doesn’t bother to share who he is with the whole room.

“Do you have a question for Louis? Or are you considering suing us?”

Harry smiles. “Not suing, no.” He looks at Louis. “How’s your birthday so far?”

Louis smiles wider and takes a moment to answer. “It’s really good. Had lunch earlier with my sister. Now I’m here, enjoying cliches.”

The audience doesn’t get that, but Harry laughs. “That’s good to hear,” he says. He drops his gaze after he’s stared too long, and they’re quickly approaching an awkward silence. He hands the mic back to the sound technician, who gives it to the girl standing behind Harry.

“Hi, Louis,” the girl says.

Louis looks away from Harry. “Hi, love.”

The girl grins. “Can we expect a tour from The Wonderlands next year? And will they be going to Asia?”

“Good question,” Nick says. “Lots of rumours buzzing around about that.”

Louis draws out the suspense for a moment, his smile growing. Harry already knows the answer to this one. “Yes, The Wonderlands will be touring later next year. They’ll be in the UK and North America, but I can’t confirm on Asia or South America just yet. As for exactly _when_ , you’ll have to just be surprised.”

“That’s good enough for me,” Nick says. “We’ve got to move on to our next band, and the one I’ve been most excited about. They just put out a new album, and it’s incredible. This is Years & Years.”

The band takes up the stage, and the lights on Louis and Nick die down, leaving technicolour lights directed solely on the lead singer.

The next forty minutes go by with more questions — Louis confirms that he’s been working on his own music — and another performance. Nick gets Louis to sing a bit of Jingle Bells, which the audience goes wild for. They close out with a giveaway. One guest wins an Apple iPad. Another gets free concert tickets. Harry gets a T-shirt for not exactly catching the beachball, along with all the others who actually did.

Afterwards, Louis and Nick wave to the audience, wish them all a Merry Christmas and leave the stage. Harry waits for the majority of people gathered around him to leave before he approaches the man he spotted standing nearest to the stage.

“Hi,” Harry says. “Alberto?”

The man smiles, reaching out to shake his hand. “Harry, good to see you.”

“Same to you.” Harry glances behind him at the stage, but there’s no sign of Louis in the wings. “Could you tell him I’ll be waiting by the big Christmas tree outside? I just want to say hi.”

“Will do,” Alberto says.

“And Happy Christmas to you.”

“Happy Christmas,” Alberto says, giving him a stunted wave that, Harry imagines, is all his beefy muscles will allow.

Harry leaves and takes up a seat by the Christmas Tree. ‘[In The Bleak Midwinter](http://aliensingucci.tumblr.com/post/168404659561/myseaoflove-the-honey-trees-in-the-bleak),’ a dreary old time Christmas song, is playing through the speakers attached to the lampposts.

 _“In the bleak midwinter,”_ a wispy voice sings. _“frosty wind made moan…”_

He curls his arms across his chest as he waits, wishing he’d just stayed inside. He shuts his eyes, listening to the wind in the trees and a gaggle of shoppers, the faint hum of engines and this song like a caress.

After thirty minutes in the cold, he considers leaving. He looks silly sat there as everyone trickles outside and gets into their cars and heads to their warm homes. it’s possible that Louis will assume he’s left too.

But it’s a testament to how eager Harry truly is that he stays put. Up ahead, he sees Alberto first. Directly behind him is Louis, in a wool coat and a knit scarf. Immediately, he looks across the street and sees Harry. He turns to Alberto, taking his hand and giving him a hug with a few soft pats to his back. They must wish each other 'Happy Christmas' and then they part ways.

Harry stands when Louis starts in his direction, a smile growing from ear to ear. Louis waits for a car to pass before jogging across the street.

“Hi,” he says, breath blossoming white in the air. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Harry meets him halfway, shaking his head. “It’s alright,” he says. “Happy Birthday.”

“Thank you.” Louis grins. “You here alone?”

“I am. I came to do some Christmas shopping.”

“Very proactive,” Louis says.

“Don’t even know what that word means,” Harry says. “I heard about your show on Twitter. Thought I’d see what it was all about.”

“I’m glad you did,” Louis says. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you.”

Harry wishes he wouldn’t say things like that. He’s too weak for even the slightest affection.

The cold air meeting Louis’ eyes turns them misty and the moon beams and street lamps catching on his irises make them appear like Christmas lights themselves. Harry is so entirely ruined. He’s known that all along. He asks carefully, “Is Eric visiting?”

“No,” Louis says. “We’re actually not seeing each other anymore.”

Harry pauses, his lips parted. “Oh.” He swallows, but the knot in his throat remains. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“That's such a typical thing to say, Harry.”

“You’re right,” Harry says. “Let me try again: Did you dump him or vice versa?”

“I told him I didn't think we were going anywhere.”

Harry hisses. “Brutal.”

“Much better,” Louis says, laughing.

“Wait,” Harry says. “What are you doing for the rest of your birthday then?”

“I’ve got this bottle of wine,” Louis says, lifting it slightly, “Netflix _,_ and a few days left on my year of free pizza at Dominoes.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “You’re _alone_ on your birthday?”

“It’s not a big deal, I promise.”

“It’s a very big deal,” Harry says. It's not, if he's being honest. He spent the latter half of his birthday this year the same way. But it’s Louis who hates to be alone.

“Well, it’s Christmas Eve,” Louis says. “You’re alone, aren’t you?”

“I am, unfortunately. Andy has a flight in tomorrow at noon, and then we’ll head to my parents’. It’s not the same thing, though,” Harry says. “You shouldn't be alone on your birthday, Louis.”

Louis takes a deep breath before he speaks. “I think you shouldn't be alone on Christmas Eve.”

They look at each other, both waiting. Or it's Louis that's waiting and Harry working up the nerve.

 _Don't even think about it_ , Cassie would say, but he already has.

“I’ve got nothing on if you want the company,” Harry says. “Could make you a birthday dinner?”

Louis exhales, his shoulders sinking. “I’d love the company,” he says. “Dinner sounds great. Only if I can help, though.”

“I love help,” Harry says. “My car’s parked down the road. I’ll follow you to yours.”

†

They’re both starving by the time they reach Louis’ home. They shake the cold from their bones and hang their coats up in the cupboard. Their shoes lay discarded by the door and they’ve pushed their sleeves up to their elbows.

They decide on spaghetti and meatballs because it’s the fastest simplest dish with enough charm for a Christmas Eve night. While the pasta cooks, Harry starts up a pot of mulled wine using Louis’ bottle of Merlot. He opens his own bottle of Pinot Noir, adds a splash to the sauce, and pours generously into glasses for them to sip while they work.

“They tried to teach us choreography,” Louis says. There’s a plate of five meatballs between them and a bowl of seasoned minced beef. They’ve working their way through the batch as Louis explains what life on tour was like. “And it was a disaster. It was never our intention to be a boyband in the first place.  So when we became one, we didn’t want to do the typical stuff. We had some moves we did sometimes. We’d still dance a lot on stage, but we just weren’t for the fancy choreography.”

“Not sure I’m familiar with these moves,” Harry says.

“You sound curious.”

“I’m very curious,” Harry says. “I’ll have to look this up on Youtube when I’m home.”

“Why do that when I’m right here?”

“I’ve seen you move in your old age, Louis.”

“My _old_ age,” Louis repeats, eyes widening. “Wow.”

He tosses the ball of meat he was working on back into the bowl and rinses his hands in the sink. “My old age,” he says again.

Harry laughs, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth. “DId I offend you?”

“You offended yourself, believing lies about me,” Louis says, drying his hands. “Should apologise to yourself.”

“This is so intense,” Harry says. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He’s getting down on the ground is what he’s doing.

“You haven’t really seen me move, Harry,” Louis says. “I only gave you a glimpse.”

“Oh, right. Okay, show me what you can do. No holding back,” Harry orders as Louis lies flat on his tiled floor. “I really hope you can get back up afterwards.”

Louis pauses, pressing his forehead to the floor, and his shoulders shake with laughter. When he looks up, his face is flushed. “I’m sure you’ll save me if not.” He situates himself as if he’s about to do a few push-ups, except his knees are against the ground. “Now, just watch. I’m going to do the worm.”

“I’m worried about your knees,” Harry says.

“That’s what he said.”

“Wow. I’ve got a five-year-old breakdancing for me.”

“Just shut up and watch.”

Harry definitely watches. The muscles in Louis’ back shifting beneath his shirt demand to be watched. Harry takes a long sip of his wine and thoroughly enjoys the view. Louis succeeds in doing a classic worm, pushing himself up and collapsing down three times.

“That’s the prettiest invertebrate I’ve ever seen,” Harry says.

Louis looks at him and breaks into laughter, spreading himself out on the floor. He rolls over onto his back and just lies there. “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”

Harry smiles. “Okay.” He tilts his head. “Do you need some help getting up, Louis?”

“I’m still deciding.”

Harry waits, laughter spilling periodically from his lips. It’s made further impossible to contain himself when Pepper saunters into the room and sniffs Louis with obvious concern.

“I think I need some help, Harry,” Louis finally says.

Harry laughs until it hurts. “Oh my God,” he says, gripping the edge of the counter. “Are you serious?”

“No, of course I’m not serious,” Louis says and gets to his feet on his own. “You think I’m eighty-five?”

The corners of Harry’s eyes are damp, and his cheeks are sore when he’s laughed enough for the rest of the year.

“There’s a lot more where that came from too,” Louis says.

“You’ll have to show me everything sometime.”

Louis washes his hands again and returns to their batch of meatballs. “Maybe if you get me drunk enough.”

Harry lifts the bottle of wine and refills Louis’ glass. “I'm on it.”

Although, he shouldn't be. Heaven knows what being alone and drunk has done to them before.

“You should put on some music,” Harry says. “It’s better to make a meal with music.”

“Don’t you sound posh,” Louis says. “What songs does His Majesty request?”

Harry tilts his chin upwards and peers at a random spot on the wall as he thinks. “Do you possess any Whitney Houston albums?”

“I think so,” Louis says, washing and drying his hands again. “I’ll check.”

“Such an accommodating host,” Harry says as he leaves, earning another laugh from Louis. He returns a few minutes later with a record in his hands, holding the cover up for Harry to see.

“R&B Classics?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Harry says. “Very good.”

Louis smiles and heads back into the living room where he supposedly keeps his record player. He places the needle on a Whitney song just for Harry: “I Wanna Dance With Somebody.” Harry snaps his fingers, and his hips move involuntarily. Louis returns to the kitchen, brows arched.

“This is the song that gets you going?”

Harry does a side-shuffle, socked feet gliding on the tiled floor. “Just one of them,” he says and then breaks into song. “Oh, I wanna dance with somebody. I wanna feel the heat—”

He hears Louis laughing at him, but he doesn’t care. In fact, that’s his whole goal — to keep him laughing.

“How about the heat of this food in our stomachs?” Louis asks.

Harry groans. “You’re ruining it,” he says. “It’s ruined.”

He says that, but he still moves and sings every word as they finish the meatballs. Louis cooks them up. Harry gets back to the mulled wine. He can't tell if it's too sweet or not sweet enough. He dips a spoon into the concoction and lifts it for Louis to taste. There's no hesitation or precaution in the gesture. Louis steps forward and sips from the spoon.

“Think it's good,” he says.

Harry turns the pot off. Louis directs him to the plates and utensils, and he sets the dining room table for two. They toss the sauce and meatball in the spaghetti and Louis brings the pot to the table. The sight of him wearing red oven mitts has Harry smiling.

“My mum got them for me,” Louis says, bashfully.

Harry smiles wider. “She has good taste.”

Louis removes his oven mitts. “I’ll let her know you said so,” he says, wearing a grin as he turns back to the kitchen.

When they finally sit down, they have full glasses of wine and heaps of spaghetti on their plates. A softer song is playing, one by Erykah Badu. Harry recognises her voice but can’t remember what it’s called. They eat in silence at first because they’re so starved, and only when they’ve cleaned half of their plates, do they look at each other and smile.

“This is fucking delicious,” Louis says.

Harry nods. “Good teamwork.”

“Agreed. Seems I can still get a lot done in my old age.”

Harry raises his wine glass to him. “Don’t push it, though.”

“Fuck off,” Louis says, and Harry laughs, the sound echoing around his wine glass.

He twirls his fork around in his pasta, watching Louis as he shakes parmesan cheese all over his dish. The silence is comfortable and domestic — a simple meal had in a simple way. When he pictured their first private dinner, it was never like this. There are, of course, no candlesticks. They aren’t sitting closely or brushing their feet together beneath the table. In the past two months, he’s imagined as much. He likes to wonder about the kind of lover Louis would be and torture himself with all the beautiful ideas he can come up with. None of that is happening now, but he’s enjoying it all the same.

When he’s finished, he sets his fork and spoon down on his plate and sits back, shutting his eyes and patting his tummy. He hears Louis laugh quietly.

“You’re like a cat,” he says.

Harry lifts his head. “I’m taking that as a compliment.”

“You should,” Louis says, lifting his wine glass.

Harry sits up straight. “So,” he begins. “Should we clean up before I go?”

Louis glances at him. He opens his mouth to speak and falters. He sets his wine glass down. “Not yet,” he finally says.

Something warm unfurls behind Harry’s ribcage, and he looks away before it shows up in his expression too. “Do you still play piano?” he asks, spotting the baby grand over by the wall of windows.

“All the time,” Louis says. “It’s therapeutic.”

Harry looks at him. “You should play something for me.”

Louis’ smile grows. “I can play anything you’d like.”

“Anything?” Harry asks sceptically.

“Anything at all. Come on.” Louis stands and heads over to the record player. He removes the needle from the disc and Brian McKnight quiets abruptly. He walks to the piano. Harry follows him.

“Sit,” Louis tells him.

Harry takes a seat beside him, watching Louis’ fingers settle comfortably on the keys. He starts playing a vague tune, soft and simple.

“What’s your favourite song?” he asks.

“I have way more than one.”

“One at a time then,” Louis says.

Harry smiles. “I’m already impressed, to be honest. You don’t have to do this. I’m worried about your arthritis.”

“Harry, give me a bloody song.”

Harry laughs. “Okay,” he says. “‘How Will I Know’—”

“By Whitney Houston,” Louis finishes for him, and the tune changes on the piano to the opening notes of the song. “Should’ve known. Think I’ve got it right, yeah?”

He’s playing perfectly, fingers moving as if they’re dancing.

“‘Infinity’ by One Direction,” Harry says.

Louis snorts. “Thought you were going to make this challenging for me.”

He plays this song effortlessly too, but Harry expected as much. Louis even looks away from the keys, sending Harry an arrogant little smirk. Harry turns Louis’ face away by pressing his fingers to his cheek. He doesn’t mean to touch him, but it’s happened already. Louis merely laughs and plays on, his bottom lip bitten. There’s a happy flush from his cheekbones to the tops of his ears. Harry struggles to look away.

“How about ‘Dare You to Move’ by Switchfoot?” he requests. “It was sort of popular in the 90s.”

Louis’ brows furrow. “Sounds familiar.”

Harry starts to hum the chorus. “Was in A Walk To Remember with Mandy Moore?”

Louis nods, recognition dawning, and plays the rest. “Got it.”

“You’re really good,” Harry says. “Really, really good.”

“Thank you,” Louis says. He rests his hands in his lap. “Probably should’ve been a pianist.”

“Probably. In addition to producing. You’re good at that too. And singing.” One part of his brain tells him to stop talking. The other half doesn’t listen. “You’re just good at everything.”

“For an old man?” Louis asks, smiling.

“Exactly,” Harry says, grinning and tapping one of the keys idly. “I wish I’d learned to play. My mum knows a bit of piano and tried to teach me when I was younger. Guess it never stuck.”

“It’s easy to get started,” Louis says. “I’ll show you. Just place your hand here.”

He sets his hand on the keys in front of Harry to demonstrate. Doing so means he leans in a bit closer. Harry finds a way through the distraction of Louis’ body heat and his cologne and lifts his hand to the keys. Louis places his hand atop Harry’s just for a second and nudges his fingers into the correct position.

“I think the easiest way to learn is by getting the chords down first. Similar to playing guitar,” Louis says. “That one there is C major.”

Harry chances a glance at him, and their faces are so close. Louis sits back immediately. For the first time all night, his smile is a bit tense. Harry clears his throat. “I think my mum taught me some of these.”

“Do you remember the others?”

“Possibly G,” Harry says, moving his fingers. “Major or minor.”

“Almost,” Louis says. He touches Harry’s hand again, directing his fingers correctly. “That’s G minor.”

His fingers press down on Harry’s. His chest against Harry’s shoulder is warm, as are his hands. And his voice. Louis slides both of their hands to another set of keys.

“And A minor.”

Harry glances at him again, and their eyes meet. He looks at Louis’ mouth. Louis sees him do it.

The blood in Harry’s veins has climbed steadily to a boil. He's got steam beneath his skin now and can’t think clearly. His hand slides away from the piano, and he cups the back of Louis’ neck, thumb against the point of pulse beneath his ear.

“Harry,” Louis says. There’s something in his tone, be it warning or encouragement. Harry doesn't know which one. He can't think.

He leans in and presses his mouth against Louis’. He's good at this. He's always been very confident in his lips and what they can do. He's even got the perfect angle. He kisses Louis with more intent than he's ever kissed anyone, though it comes with an edge of desperation he can't control.

Louis’ fingers slip from the keys and capture his waist. Harry doesn't have to move much to get his leg over Louis’ thighs and seat himself in his lap. He’s moving fast and wild. Louis’ hands slide up his sides to his waist to his back. Never has Harry lost control like this. He wants to be turned inside out and bent over backwards. He wants the heat of Louis’ palms to burn so thoroughly he dissolves and forgets who and what and where he is. It shouldn’t be possible to want someone this way. It shouldn’t be human to crave that sort of destruction and yet here he is, willing and begging to be destroyed.

The piano bench is small but they're so close now it doesn't matter. Louis leans into him and Harry’s back collides with the piano, setting off a cacophonous array of notes and chords.

They kiss deeply without breath for what seems like forever. They part but their foreheads and noses brush. Harry gives them only a second for air before he kisses him again, parting his lips, pushing his tongue against Louis’ as soon as he has the chance. He starts to rock his hips, forward and back, the bench creaking beneath them. His hand ventures down Louis’ chest, and he doesn't stop until he's right there, cupping the length of his cock through his trousers.

“Harry,” Louis says again, voice high-pitched and breaking at the end like glass. His hand comes down on Harry’s wrist and brings him to a still. “Stop. I can’t.”

He’s out of breath, but the words are clear.

“What is it?” Harry presses his palms against Louis’ face and meets his gaze, trying to quiet his own heavy breathing so he can hear and understand.

“Can’t do this with you again,” Louis says. His hands fall away from Harry’s waist and curl into fists on the piano bench. “We can’t.”

Harry’s fingertips slide down Louis’ cheeks, down his neck and chest. He then drops his hands altogether and slips out of his lap. Louis’ head is bowed, lips pressed tightly together. He's all rigid lines and muscle. Harry did that to him. Too fast. Too needy. He never learns.

“I’m sorry,” he says, tugging his jumper into place. “I understand.”

Louis shakes his head. “I have a feeling you don’t.”

“You’re not interested,” Harry says. “I’m a grown man. You can say so.”

Louis laughs humourlessly. “Not even close.”

Harry wants and needs to leave. Where he was warm and cosy in Louis’ home, he now feels unwelcome. Respectfully, he waits for Louis to go on. There's a part of him hoping his heart will be broken well and good. It'd be karma acting out her vengeance. It’d allow him to finally move the fuck on.

“I’ve spent almost an entire year wanting you,” Louis says tiredly. He looks directly at him as he speaks, forcing Harry to do the same. “You have to know that. That I’ve been losing my mind over you. That I still am.”

The words are numbing in the sweetest way. Harry’s spine loosens, and the tension begins to trickle away. Slowly, he sets his hand on Louis’ thigh again. “I’m right here.”

Louis looks pained. He stands quickly, leaving Harry alone on the piano bench, and begins to pace two steps away, two steps back, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“If I were eighteen or nineteen, this wouldn't be a problem. I’d let it happen and deal with the consequences after. But I'm too old for this shit, Harry. I’m too old to have my heart broken. That's what I'm saying to you. People aren't meant to spend months and years craving other people. When it’s not meant to be, you move on, you let it go, but that's not happening here. You say you want to be friends, and yet every fucking time we’re together, you look at me like I could have you if I just said the right words. I thought I was imagining things. But now this— I don’t know what this is.”

Harry opens and closes his mouth. He’s never seen Louis like this: frazzled to the point of pacing and rambling. He has a calculated way of speaking that must have come from years of being in the spotlight, and so far, he’s spoken to Harry in just that manner, like he's worked out all the equations before the conversation’s even begun. He hasn't worked this one out, though. He's confused and confusion breeds weakness.

“I'm sorry,” Harry says again.

Louis tilts his head back, eyes rolling shut.  “You don't even know what the fuck you're apologising for,” he says quietly. “You just think that's what I want to hear.”

“Tell me what you want to hear then,” Harry says. “What do you want me to say?”

“What are you _doing_ here?” Louis asks. “Why’d you come? Was it as a friend? Or did you come to fuck? Did you need someone to cosy up to on Christmas Eve? What is it?”

“I didn’t come with a hidden motive, Louis. I didn’t even plan on talking to you.” Harry pushes his hands through his hair, tugging on the roots a bit too firmly. “But then I actually saw you, and the fucking beach ball nearly blinded me— And I don’t know. I missed you. I wanted to see you. I went with how I was feeling. How I've _been_ feeling for a while.”

“That’s not good enough,” Louis says. The vulnerability is still there, evident in the flush of his cheeks and neck, but he’s starting to paint it over with his anger. He takes a strong stance. His arms cross his chest, feet nearly hip distance apart, chin slightly raised. This must be the look he reserves for when he's dealing in business. Impassive enough to seem untouchable but still vigilant. It's all just a front. It's paint over broken fences. New tyres for an old, weary car.

Harry gets to his feet. He doesn’t like Louis looking down at him. He feels small enough as is, stumbling for words and explanations he doesn’t have. He thinks putting them on equal footing might help. (It doesn’t.)

“What do you want me to say?” he asks again. He's begging this time. There's little dignity left to suffer for it.

“I have to spell it out?” Louis asks. “There's a long list of things, Harry. I want to know that you’re not doing what you did in February. That you didn’t just come here for one reason.”

Harry gets a spark of anger and tries to hold onto it with slippery metaphoric fingers. Anger is good. Makes him feel a little less like a puppy preparing grovel. “I told you so already.”

“Then what the fuck was that just now?”

Harry covers his face with his hand. “I don’t know. I couldn’t think.” He looks at Louis imploringly. “I came because you were alone on your birthday. You hate to be alone, and I didn’t want you to be. That’s all.”

“So you felt sorry for me?” Louis nods. “You’re right. That’s much better. Suppose you feel good about yourself, yeah?”

Harry exhales an abrupt laugh, at himself and at the entirety of this situation too. “I’ve really made you think the absolute worst of me.” He came here with good intentions, and look where he is now. He stares at the ceiling for a moment. “I should go.”

“I imagine you would.”

Heat rushes to the surface of his skin. He feels it on his cheekbones and the tops of his ears. He stays right where he is. “What more do you expect? I’ve said sorry a million times, and it's clearly not working. I said sorry for what happened in February, and you’re obviously still upset. I’m not saying what you want to hear, but I also don’t know what it is that you _actually_ want to hear.”

Louis massages his temples. “Let me spell it out then,” he says. “You’re not as selfless as you want me to believe. You don't think before you do anything. You said it yourself: You're just going with how you feel. So that's what you do. You came to an event specifically to see me because that’s what you felt like doing. You’re here in my home because you felt like being here. You climb into my lap because that's what felt right to you in that moment. And you never think for a second about what it’ll mean to me. And you can't even explain properly what it means to you. And after we’ve played this game and I've hurt you and you've hurt me, we’ll say we’re sorry and pretend we’re good. And then in another few months, this might happen all over again. And all because you can't just be honest about why you’re here or what the fuck it is that you actually want. It's not just the sex. You clearly don't want to be friends. Sounds to me like you're running out of options.”

Harry turns towards the windows and catches a glimpse of his reflection. His face is blotchy, eyes a bit wide, and he's biting his lip so hard it's turned white beneath his teeth. He looks on the verge of tears, in all honesty.

Just like a child.

He takes a minute to collect himself, rolling his neck side to side. He shakes some of that anger and tension out of his shoulders and props his hands on his hips.

“You're right,” he says with a shrug. “I’ve not got a fucking clue what I'm doing, and I’m running out of options. I was wrong in February about a lot of things. I’m not as selfless as I like to believe. I pretend I’ve made sacrifices for Andy, but I haven’t. I thought one night with you would be enough, and it wasn’t. I hoped whatever this is would go away with some time, but it hasn't. I think of you so often it makes me sick. And not about fucking you, although yes, I'd absolutely be up for that. But I think about you in the simplest ways, regardless of what I'm doing or where I am, and it's driving me insane. I bought a puppy. Did you know that? I bought a puppy in February because I was feeling sorry for myself and needed a distraction. But she isn't really helping anymore. I’ve tried seeing other people. I’ve tried everything. And I can't get you out of my head.

“I promised Andy this wouldn't happen. But I wasn't prepared for you. Trying to stay away from you only makes me want you more. Trying to be responsible ends with me being irresponsible. I don’t know what I’m doing. I swear I never have a day in my life, and somehow I manage. But I’m not managing this well. I don’t get everything right. But I’ll admit when I’m wrong, and I was wrong.”

Louis nods, as if to rub it in his face. “So what now?”

Harry is frankly offended that his historically heartfelt monologue has done nothing. He feels the way he often did after taking mock exams in sixth form. His essays were always good but never good enough. He looks at Louis like he looked at his teachers. “What more do you want from me?”

“What's your solution, Harry? How do you propose we work this out?”

“If I knew, you wouldn’t have to ask.”

“But you _do_ know.”

Harry has two options here. He doesn't let himself consider the first, and so he goes with the second and most unfavourable. “Do you want me to stay away from you?”

Louis’ eyes narrow and his jaw locks up. “Do you want to stay away from me?”

“No,” Harry says. “But if that was what you wanted—”

“No,” Louis cuts him off. “So, we can't be friends. Or friends who fuck every now and then. And you staying away from me is unlikely. So what else have we got?”

Harry doesn't answer him, pressing his lips together stubbornly.

“Jesus,” Louis hisses. “I swear, with anyone else, I would’ve let this go already. I'd let you leave. Might even _tell_ you to go. But it's you in particular. I can't let that happen because you _know_ what you want and you won't just say it. You're not into casual sex any more than I am. But you think that's all men are interested in because they see you've got a daughter and don't want to be tied down. So you settle for a quick shag and arseholes who conveniently lose your number. And you deserve so much better than that. You want to _be_ with someone. You want someone that's just yours. Who wants you just as much as you want them. And it's literally right fucking here, and you won't just say— It's unbelievable. You won’t just say you want the same thing.”

Harry folds his arms over his chest, fingers digging into his bicep. “What about Andy?”

“You weren't thinking about her a minute ago when you kissed me. You haven't been thinking about her when it comes to me. Just like I'm not thinking about what is and isn't professional when it comes to you. It makes you feel better if you pretend otherwise. It makes you feel like you’re not lying to her, but you already are. And you're lying to yourself. And lying to me. How are you not tired? Why not cross some of those things off your list,” Louis says, taking a step forward, “And tell me you want to be with me?”

The truth, hurled his way, hits Harry dead in the face and then falls at his feet where he’s forced to stare it down. He's been comparing sins. Sleeping with Louis was bad, but dating him would be worse. That's what he told himself. But that was back in February, and he was wrong about everything then. He imagined his feelings like a balloon or a bubble. He thought an instance of sex would be the pin he needed. And his feelings have grown in spite of that logic.

He _is_ tired. He's tired of moping and whining. He’s so tired of lying. If he's honest with himself, he’ll admit that in spite of his daughter and the lies he’s already told her, in spite of the risk, he wants him. This mystery of a man standing a mere foot from him now, he wants him. Not for one night. Not even for several nights. But for as long as he can have him in every way that he can.

“Are you suggesting I tell her too?” Harry asks. “That I ring her up right now?”

“Some day, yeah. Right now, I’m suggesting that you tell me you want to be with me.”

Harry gives. He caves and crashes and all that's left of him is the truth.

“I want to be with you.”

Louis has the audacity to look instantly and immensely pleased, as if he didn't just drag them both through the interrogation to end all others. A look of sudden calm settles over his face. His tense shoulders drop and he exhales.

“Good,” he says. Another step and he’s close enough to touch. “Now, where were we?”

Harry smiles so wide he knows both dimples are on full display. He knows he must look boyish with new warmth flooding his cheekbones. He lifts his hands, fingers spreading tentatively across Louis’ jaw, so pleased when Louis lets him and doesn’t shy away. Harry leans forward and kisses him without further restraint or hesitation.

“You're infuriating,” Harry says.

“Yeah, but look where it got us,” Louis says, kissing his throat with lips so hot Harry shivers. He tugs Harry’s belt buckle open and pulls the belt free of its loops. It hits the floor with a soft clatter. “Where it's getting us.”

“I told you it’s not about sex,” Harry says, willing his cock to settle down. The speed at which he reacts to provocation from Louis is embarrassing. “I meant that.”

“I heard you the first time,” Louis says, hands sliding up Harry’s hips, raising the hem of his jumper. He pulls the top off and tosses it onto the piano bench. “But it’s my birthday, and I want you on my bed.”

“You’re asking so much of me today,” Harry says, going in for another kiss. “Lead the way then, birthday boy.”

They look at each other very seriously and then dissolve into laughter.

Louis releases him, walks to the piano and pulls the cover down over the keys. He snags the bottle of wine from the dining room table and then reaches for Harry's hand.

It’s starting to feel more like Christmas. Louis undressing him and spreading him out on his mattress is the best present he could hope to receive. They kiss until their lips are chapped and their jaws are sore. They’re soft on each other and somehow rough too. Harry feels cherished and adored, and yet he feels like he’s being torn apart by Louis’ hands and fingers, his lips and his teeth.

Louis’ name keeps tumbling from his mouth. Each time he touches him or sucks a blossom-shaped bruise into his skin, Harry mumbles and groans and hisses for him. He keeps summoning him closer, though he’s close already. He could never be close enough.

That they’ve been waiting nearly a year for this is evident. Harry was foolish to think that if he found distance and time, the feelings would ebb. They’ve only done the opposite. What was first a little more than admiration is now this wild, starving thing. In February, he wanted Louis. In December, he craves him. He needs him. He thinks he’ll go mad without him.

They’re drunk on wine, after passing the bottle back and forth as they undressed. They’re laughing between kisses for reasons they can’t name. They go from one-liners and non-sequiturs to whispering dirty words in each other’s ears. Now, Louis has two fingers in Harry’s mouth and more than two fingers stretching him open and Harry decides then that he loves Christmas.

“I’ve thought of this almost everyday since February,” Louis says, his mouth at Harry’s ear, sprouting goosebumps with each soft brush of breath. Harry seals his lips around his fingers and sucks hard in reply. With his other hand, Louis reaches for the condom on the bed beside them. “I can hardly control myself around you. Always something I want to do or say that I know I shouldn’t.”

He sits back on his haunches, fingers slipping from Harry’s mouth. His cock stands exposed, flushed a deep red like the Merlot. Harry’s mouth, now sadly empty, begins to water.

Louis slips the condom on. “But we’re done with that,” he says, stroking himself a few times. His tongue swipes his bottom lip as he moves in. The head of his cock nudges Harry’s entrance.

Harry pulls him close and closer until Louis is pushing inside of him. “Don’t control yourself,” he says, eyes slipping shut. “Just me.”

He doesn't make it that easy for him. He feels inspired to overturn them and ride Louis with quick, snapping thrusts. The massive bed whines, but the two of them are louder. All their panting and groaning and the sloppy way their lips meet make for an intoxicating song. In fact, he could liken this rush to the one he gets at concerts. Each time Louis’ cock nudges deeper, it's like the lead singer of his favourite band hitting a celestial high note.

As it would turn out, time does not heal all wounds. With neglect and disregard, some fester, and those are the ones Louis finds now, and the ones his touch soothes best. He lets Harry ride him until he's had enough and flips them over again, and each time he rocks forward, Harry falls deeper into the heady calm and reassurance of Louis’ body against his own. Even the shame and the guilt of what he's doing, eventually, he forgets them too.

He feels breathless. And nameless. He feels here and there, infinite and temporary. He feels like himself and also like a mere extension of Louis. Their pace quickens, and his fingers seek purchase in the sheets but can't find it. He grabs for Louis instead and holds tight to his tense bicep, to his damp hair, or his hips as they buck and clash against his own. He's at the precipice again, and Louis pushes in deep and sends them both tumbling over the edge.

A while later, when their sweat has dried, and they've cleaned themselves off, Harry draws odd shapes on Louis' stomach. He doesn't speak, wary about the last time he did so after they'd done this, but his head is full of thoughts. He steals the cigarette from Louis’ fingers and puts it to his own mouth, has two drags and hands it back.

“You should quit,” he says, exhaling towards the ceiling.

Louis breathes a soft laugh. “I’ll make a deal with you.”

“I'm listening,” Harry says.

“I’ll try to quit for the millionth time if you spend New Year’s in New York with me.”

Harry turns to him. They watch each other like astronomers do stars, curious and captivated.

“Don’t quit smoking for me,” Harry says.

“Is that a no?”

“Of course not. New Year’s in New York sounds like a lot of fun.” Harry beckons for the cigarette again and has another long pull. “I just don’t know how we’re going to do this. I lie to her so often. Sometimes about silly things and sometimes bigger things. But this is the worst of them. I'm not all that good at keeping secrets. I pretend to be, but I've never kept a secret like this.”

He hands the cigarette off. Louis sits upright, and Harry reaches for his forearm, fingers clamping down to stop him.

“Please don’t leave me in bed again. I'm not making excuses, I promise. I'm not changing my mind.”

Louis smiles. “I'm just getting rid of this,” he says, gesturing with the cigarette, which he then grinds into an ash tray by the bedside. He stays upright, so Harry sits up too.

“It won't be a secret forever, yeah?” Louis says, propping his arm atop one knee. “Just until the band is more stable.”

If he and Louis survive that long, sure. “That's the idea,” Harry says.

“Lucky for us, I'm very good at keeping secrets.”

Harry looks at him. “Even from me?”

“If necessary. Can’t have you knowing about my twenty pet chimps,” Louis says. He levels their gazes. “Come on, Harry.”

“I had to ask,” Harry says, petulantly. He collapses on the bed again, hair thrown this way and that. Louis does the same. They curl up beside each other like question marks. Their eyes meet and Louis’ gaze is bright and hopeful. Harry reaches out and traces the calm surface of his face as if his fingers were skimming still water.

“Here’s what I think,” Louis says. “Andy’s concerns about the band make sense. I know things are unsteady. I know it has a lot to do with her and Rose. I’ve tried working it out, and sometimes it seems like it’s gone away. But I think it’s all got something to do with Murphy’s Law. If something can go wrong, it will. Things have been nearly perfect with the girls aside from that issue, and it only makes sense, right? Can’t have everything be peachy.”

“I wish that weren’t the case,” Harry says.

“So do I,” Louis says. “I say all this because I get it, why Andy’s concerned. I’m concerned too. I realise that being with you could cause more tension than there is already. I realise it’s unprofessional and risky. And yet all I’m thinking about right now is if you’d prefer something fancy or casual on a first date. If you’re a pizza guy or more of a burger person.”

Harry presses his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyelids. He hears Louis laugh softly beside him.

“I’m thinking about when I’ll get to see you again after tonight,” Louis says. “And I’m thinking I can’t wait for that to happen.”

“Jesus,” Harry says. “Take it easy on me.”

“Weren’t singing that tune a minute ago,” Louis says, with a suggestive shrug of his brows.

Harry gives him a shove in his chest for that. He feels the laughter rumble beneath his fingertips. He leaves his hand there against Louis’ sternum where his skin is warm and covered lightly by soft hair.

“I can’t think about anything else but this right now,” Louis says. “I’ll figure out the rest when I get there.”

“I think you make a very convincing argument.”

“A man of many talents, me.”

Harry doesn’t tease him, as much as he’d like to. “I’ve never been to New York.”

“You’d love it.”

“I think I would with you,” Harry says.

“That’s what I’ve been saying this whole time.”

Harry covers Louis’ mouth with his hand, which only prompts him to smile wider, so absolutely pleased with himself. He should be, Harry thinks. He’s pleased with him too.

“I thought you’d be less of an arse after sex,” Harry says. “I guess I was wrong.”

He kisses him again before Louis can respond with another quip. He kisses him wherever his mouth can reach without having to move too far — on his eyelid and his nose and his temple.

Louis leaves the bed to let Pepper into the room and pour them cups of mulled wine from the batch still waiting on the hob. They drink and talk quietly while the cat curls up into the space at their feet.

“So, is it pizza or burgers?” Louis asks at random.

“Burgers,” Harry says, easily. “You?”

“Pizza,” Louis says. He sucks a hissing breath through his teeth. “Seems we have a problem.”

Harry laughs and sets his empty mug down on the bedside cabinet. He lies down and peers up at Louis. His eyes trace Louis’ mouth again. Apparently, he hasn't had enough. “Doesn’t feel like it,” he says.

Louis’ hand slides through the hair falling over his shoulder and up until he’s cupping the back of Harry’s neck. “You’re right.” He leans in.

“It's past midnight,” Louis says, before their mouths can meet.

Harry pauses, glancing at the clock on the bedside cabinet. “Look at that.”

“Happy Christmas, love,” Louis says.

Harry kisses him. “Happy Christmas,” he says, and kisses him again.


	7. Chapter 7

He’s asked twice if he’s feeling poorly. The second time, he tells his aunt that yes, in fact, he is a bit stuffy. Andy looks at him with her unique combination of suspicion and concern. His mum promises him a warm cuppa and cough syrup before bed. Harry pretends to be periodically overcome by a cough from then on.

He does have a fever, albeit of the Peggy Lee ‘You Give Me Fever’ variety. Christmas dinner is plagued by random and constant mental recaps of the night before and even earlier that morning when Louis had knelt in his gleaming kitchen and taken Harry into his mouth. His tongue had been warm from his morning tea. He’d been careful but eager. His finger tips had pressed punishingly into Harry’s thighs. Perhaps they even left bruises. Harry hasn’t had time to check.

By the door afterwards, Louis kissed him in that slow, lazy way a person wakes up.

“Can’t wait for New York”, he’d said, and then Harry hurried to get Andy from the airport with the same words tumbling in perpetuity around his head.

“What is wrong with you?”

That's Gemma. There’s morning light streaming in through the windows. There’s a cup of tea sitting in front of him. He suspects he’s been staring into it for some time. He looks at his sister standing across from him. Somehow Christmas dinner has passed, along with Christmas night.

“I’m fine,” Harry says.

Gemma’s gaze is relentless. He fidgets and forces a smile. “Are you high?” she asks.

He can hear his mum moving about in another part of the house. He wouldn’t dare to so much as roll the blunt where she could see, but he knows a perfect excuse when he sees one. He presses a finger to his lips. Shh, it means.

“Oh my God,” Gemma says, and then excitedly, “Where's the rest?”

“All gone,” Harry whispers, lifting his mug.

Horrified, Gemma’s mouth drops open. “I can’t believe you.”

“Next time,” he swears, in spite of the fact he hasn't procured his own weed in years. He’s a fly caught in a web of lies.

“I always share with you. Always.” She gathers her mug and the piece of toast she’s dressed with jam. “I can't believe you.”

She leaves him feeling sorry for being stingy with a nonexistent blunt and with the burden of now having to make it up to her. But the point is that she leaves, giving him a chance to set his tea down again and ruminate about New York, about New Year’s, about Louis.

He doesn't stop for days.

Now at London-Heathrow, there's a man sitting opposite Harry wearing a wedding band on his pinky finger, and Harry passes time trying to figure out why.

Is he a divorcee struggling to cope? Or did some added weight fatten his ring finger to the point that the ring no longer fit? He has meaty fingers, the kind Harry pictures wrapped around a cigar. Louis has a box of cigars on his desk but Harry can’t picture him smoking one without wanting to laugh. When he does laugh, the man with the cigar hands glances at him. Harry pretends to check the time on his phone. (Only a minute has passed since he last checked.)

The woman beside Harry is reading an erotica novel on her iPad. Jennifer and Lance are fucking right now in Lance’s car. The woman reading is biting her lip, then licking both lips, then shifting in her seat. Harry feels a little uncomfortable sat so close. Jennifer just told Lance that she loved him in the midst of their love-making and now Lance is panicking. Such a cliche. The woman beside Harry is clearly disappointed. Harry looks away and lets her mourn in peace.

There’s another man struggling to control his daughter over by a newsstand. Seconds later, the little girl gets away from him. There’s a moment of hesitation on the man’s part like he might just throw in the towel and let the little girl run free. Baby sea turtles survive on their own, don’t they? Some of them, at least.

Once when Andy was five or six, she refused to stop crying in Harrods, as if she was hell-bent on making a complete tit of him. And there was a second — a very brief second — where Harry thought to just walk right out of the store. He’d scooped her up instead and completed his purchase with a screaming child in his arms and several patrons passing undeserved judgment like they had a clue.

The man by the newsstand breaks into a sprint after his daughter and grabs her by the back of the shirt.

Meanwhile, Cigar Fingers has started Facetiming. When he smiles, Harry notices a gold canine tooth.

The erotica novel has gone further downhill. Lance just left Jen in the car. Jen and the woman reading are devastated.

Harry’s knee starts to bounce. He looks around for someone else to fixate on, but watching people is losing its charm.

“Mr Styles?”

He straightens up in his seat. “Yes?”

The woman standing in front of him extends her hand. “Hi, I’m Laura.” Quickly, Harry stands and shakes her hand. “I’m here to direct you to the private terminal.” She gestures to the man behind her. “This is Jack. He’ll take your luggage, and you can follow me.”

Jack steps forward with a smile, taking Harry’s holdall for him. As Laura turns, she sticks the red straw of a large iced coffee into her mouth. Harry wonders if this morning has been particularly stressful or if that’s her usual drink of choice. He thinks he might actually want a coffee himself. He finished packing two nights ago, miraculously. He even got a good night’s sleep. But that morning, before taking the car Louis sent for him to the airport, he’d been sitting on the edge of the tub with his head in his hands. Contemplating life choices requires more energy than one would think.

“Do you actually mind if I grab a coffee first?” Harry asks.

“Oh, I can bring you a cup onboard,” Laura says, stopping. “Unless there’s a place you’d prefer?”

“Is Louis waiting?” Harry asks. “I don’t want to keep him.”

“Mr Tomlinson is actually running a little late. He instructed me to get you settled in and started on breakfast if you’d like.”

“Oh. Coffee on board is fine, then,” Harry says. “Thank you.”

Laura smiles and turns again. “There’ll be lunch later on too.”

Breakfast and lunch. He’s never gotten both on any flight, transatlantic or otherwise. Once he dated a rich bloke for about two weeks. ‘Dated’ meaning he took Harry to some banquet or gala, bought him a nice dress suit, and then trotted him around like a nice watch for the entirety of the night. The luxury of it all was fascinating enough to make Harry stay. He remembers texting Andy while he’d been seated at for dinner. ‘When are you going to make me this rich?’ he’d asked her. Even jokingly, it was dishonest. Harry doesn’t care all that much for a rich life, although it looks good on him. Luxury can be a distraction for how ugly people are on the inside, like that man Harry dated — Adam, he thinks. Adam was the wealthiest man he’d ever met at the time and the biggest wanker too.

Where is he going with this train of thought?

He forgets when a blast of frigid air meets his face. Two tinted glass doors have slid open, revealing the tarmac, damp from an earlier sprinkling of rain, and a white jet poised just a few feet away.

“Mr Tomlinson should be here shortly,” Laura says, as they grow closer to the jet and the jet grows larger. “If you have any questions at all, feel free to let me know.”

Harry has a lot of questions. How much did the private jet cost, for example? Does it matter?

That’s where the train of thought had been headed. Down some road concerning Louis’ wealth. He’s trying to be honest with himself lately, and the full scope and grandeur of Louis’ livelihood both attracts and terrifies him. Louis isn’t like Adam, though, or any of the men Harry dated in the past.

He steps onto the jet behind Laura.

“Should I bring you that coffee now, Mr Styles?”

“Harry,” he tells her, smiling. “And please do, although I'll hold off on breakfast until Louis gets here.”

“Very well,” she says, giving a nod to one of the hosts, who immediately fills a cup with black coffee. There’s a setup of cream and sugar on the small table in front of him.

Harry shuffles around in the cream-colored leather seat that holds him like a baseball mitt. He has a sip of his coffee and then shuts his eyes. Too much time has been allowed for him to dwell in his own head. That’s the problem. He’s gone too long without seeing Louis and that’s left him room for doubt and guilt and worry.

He slides a menu off the table in front of him and weighs his options. An omelette sounds good. So do the Belgian waffles. He puts the menu down. He’ll wait. His stomach is complaining but he’ll wait.

There are about three flight attendants altogether, including Laura. Harry spots one of the pilots down the aisle as well, who lifts a hand to wave politely. Harry waves back. He gets comfortable in his seat, tilts his head back and again, closes his eyes.

He doesn’t know how much time passes between the second he dozes off and the second he wakes. When he looks around, he’s still alone, but Laura is stepping outside and heading back towards the sliding glass doors.

Harry has a sip of his coffee. Enough time has passed that it’s no longer piping hot. He sits up a little straighter and checks the time again. They were supposed to depart at 8:00. It's nearly 9:00 now.

There's some commotion on the other side of the window and then Louis, stepping into the cold behind Laura and Jack. He's wearing a snapback and Vans and a wool coat.

Harry runs a hand through his hair just as Louis steps onto the plane.

Louis smiles upon seeing him. “Sorry, I’m late,” he says, his gaze lingering while Laura takes his scarf, his fingerless gloves, and the coat. When she leaves, Louis sinks down into the seat opposite Harry with a sigh.

Harry says, “I thought you were standing me up.”

“I came close, honestly,” Louis confesses, fighting another smile.

Harry arches both brows. “Oh?”

“I was in the car. Traffic was awful,” Louis says with a shrug. “And I thought ‘how excited are you really for this trip with Harry? It’s not like you've been up all night ensuring everything went perfectly. Not like you've thought of little else since Christmas Eve.” He gives a little nod to one of flight attendants and they come by to fill his cup with coffee. “Might as well go home, I said to myself. Order sushi. Watch that show on HBO—”

“Oh, which one?” Harry wonders.

“Can't remember the name. It's a strange one, though. About cyborgs and Westerns.”

Harry snaps his fingers. “West something?”

“Westworld,” Louis says with a snap of his own. “That's it.”

“You were going to stand me up to watch Westworld and eat sushi.”

“Strongly considered it,” Louis says, lifting his cup for a sip. His lips begin to curve.

“I feel like I should reward your wise decision-making by saying that I'm really attracted to you right now.”

Louis rests his chin on his fist. “Tell me more.”

Harry gestures around them. “The private jet, the way you walked in here like you owned the place—”

“I practically do.”

Harry takes a sip of his coffee. “It's working.”

“Good.” Louis grins, folding his hands atop his stomach. “We’re off to a great start.”

Being with Louis is like this: he feels anxious one moment, and then finds that anxiety replaced in the next by something equally dizzying but comfortable. It’s like being on a rollercoaster. He might be zipping through the air hundreds of feet off the ground, but he’s also secured by straps and bars. He might now be in a secret relationship, but it’s with this man in particular. For him, it feels worth it.

“Up all night, were you?” Harry asks.

Louis’ smile grows bashful. “I think I caught about three hours of sleep.”

With a pout, Harry pats his lap. “You can always rest your head here if you need a nap.”

“Tempting,” Louis says. He settles further into his seat. Harry does the same and they watch each other. It’s been about six days since he last kissed him, and suddenly, in spite of months pretending to be friends, that amount of time feels absurd and unacceptable. As if they’ve read each other’s minds, the same moment in which Harry considers changing seats is the same one in which Louis says, “Come here.”

Harry stands and slides into the seat beside him.

“You’ve got an eyelash beneath your eye,” Louis says, leaning in close.

Harry shuts his eyes, tilting his head. “Make a wish when you get it.”

He feels Louis’ breathy laughter on his upper lip first and then Louis’ mouth on his own. Harry’s palm fits along Louis’ jaw, fingers at the back of his neck. It feels like Christmas Eve all over again, except for the flight attendant passing by or the low humming of the plane’s machinery. He could kiss him from here to New York probably, but they part before it turns to full-on snogging.

“Thank you for coming,” Louis says, stroking Harry’s dimple.

“Thanks for not standing me up.”

“Don’t mention it,” Louis says with another kiss. His hand comes to rest on Harry’s thigh. He reaches for his menu with the other. “Let's get breakfast.”

Harry peels his eyes away from him and directs his goofy smile to his own menu. “Breakfast sounds good.”

Louis orders an omelette. Harry gets the Belgian waffle and they share both. They talk for the first two hours or so about Christmas and their families and whatever else comes to mind. Louis’ eyelids grow heavy before the third hour starts. Harry laughs and tells him to ‘give up already’. Louis gives up. He sleeps for an hour before Harry joins him, heads lolling with the steady undulation of the jet. Louis’ head ends up on his shoulder, Harry’s on the plane window.

Harry doesn’t sleep long. When he wakes, it’s with a crick in his neck. The seats are designed to recline fully and turn into lounges. There are pillows and blankets they could use too, but infatuation is silly and senseless, inspiring them to cosy up even when it isn’t comfortable.

When Harry wakes, he reclines Louis’ chair for him, pushing a button — after a minor struggle to find the right one — on the wooden console between them. He asks the flight attendant for a pillow and blanket, sticks the pillow beneath Louis’ head, and drapes the blanket over his body. He gets up to use the loo and stretch his legs, orders a mimosa, watches the flat sheet of clouds pass beneath the body of the plane. He contemplates his own mortality the way plane rides make people do, all that air to fall through, all that ocean waiting at the end in which to disintegrate. He stretches and has another mimosa and then, when he can think of nothing else to do, he sits beside Louis again, reclines his chair, and sleeps.

†

On the drive from JFK to the hotel, Louis warns him that things are going to get ‘very romantic very quickly’ and if at any time things are ‘too romantic’, Harry should tell him so.

“How can something be too romantic?” Harry wonders aloud.

Louis pulls his sunglasses off. “You’ve obviously never seen The Bachelor.”

“Are you about to turn into The Bachelor?” Harry asks.

“Close enough,” Louis says. “It’s hard to get a good read on you. I can’t tell if you’re the kind that likes to be wined and dined. Or if you prefer grabbing food and eating in a park.”

Harry smiles. “Which one are you?”

“Doesn’t matter to me,” Louis says, resting his hands on his stomach like an old man. “So long as the right person is there.”

Harry says, “That’s my answer too.”

“Good,” Louis says. “Because you’re about to get wined and dined.”

And the first thing Louis does when they arrive at the Four Seasons is open the bottle of wine that came with the fruit and cheese platter. The process of being fully romanced starts here: in this elegant room with a fireplace and a full seating area and this behemoth of a bed covered in fluffy luxurious sheets that make Harry want to strip down and spread himself out for the taking. The view overlooking Central Park is pristine and surreal. The air is frigid but he and Louis stand out on the balcony for two minutes before they can’t feel their fingers or the wine glasses they’re holding.

Minutes later, two masseuses show up at the door and ask them kindly to change into robes.

Harry is beginning to understand now. While all the tension is carefully purged from his back muscles, he looks at Louis. Louis reaches across the distance between their massage tables simply to touch Harry’s forearm.

“I think you’d be great on The Bachelor,” Harry says.

Louis smiles. “I’ll send in my application then.” His hand slides to Harry’s and their fingers link.

“Everyone would fall in love with you too quickly. Not in a showy way for the sake of the cameras, but full blown, arse-over-tit in love,” Harry says. He’d meant for it to be funny (sort of), but it feels more significant than intended. So he doesn’t wait for Louis’ response, although he can almost see one building. He turns his head and says to the masseuse, “Sir, what’s your name again?”

“Joe,” the man says.

“You're doing a fucking incredible job, Joe,” Harry tells him. He looks at Louis again when he hears him laugh. “He's fucking incredible.”

“Getting me jealous,” Louis says. He runs his thumb across Harry's wrist and over his tattoos. He releases his hand so just their pinkies are linked.

“Nothing to be jealous of,” Harry says, letting his eyes drift shut to the sight of Louis’ gentle smile.

The massage comes to a sad but necessary end. Dinner is at 9:00 PM. Louis won't tell him where they're going, only that it's sickeningly romantic. They get dressed. Harry is grateful Louis steps into the loo to do his hair so he can lie flat on the bed and work his black jeans up his thighs. He lies there for a second afterwards, trying to catch his breath, which is when Louis steps out of the loo, wearing a black button-up beneath a black blazer. Harry sits upright, taking a slow perusal of him.

“You look perfect,” he says.

Louis’ lips twitch. “So do you.”

“When do I get to take it all off?” Harry asks.

Louis snorts. He steps closer, holding his hands out. Harry takes them and allows Louis to pull him to his feet. “I think,” Louis begins, running his hands over Harry’s hips and the silky white blouse he wears. “It’s only fair that we take everything off at the same time. Later.”

Harry kisses him. “Later sounds good.”

They leave Manhattan and head to Brooklyn. Harry takes Louis’ hand during the short ride over, and that dissolves into a thumb wrestle. He beats Louis twice. Louis cheats on the third go and uses his other hand to hold Harry's thumb down.

“I have to ask—” Harry begins with his head now reclined on Louis’ shoulder.

“Do you really though?”

Harry thinks about it, frowning. “Yes. Do we need to worry about people seeing us? Noticing us?”

“I don't think so,” Louis says. “I stay low key, remember? That’s part of the point of avoiding the city. It's dark out. People are drunk. Just follow my lead and we’ll be fine.”

He squeezes Harry’s hand, and Harry says, “Okay.”

When they pull up to the kerb, Harry climbs out first. It is dark, not so much that they can't see ahead of them, but enough that he can't make out the face of a man smoking nearby. They step into the warmth of The Bridge Cafe, where a man is already waiting for them.

“Good to see you, Louis,” he says, shaking his hand. “Right this way.”

And then Louis takes Harry's hand, apparently finding it safe to do now. There are tables spread out all around the main dining area, seated with people, lit by small candles, bearing bouquets. Through the windows lining that area, he sees the Brooklyn Bridge gleaming with headlights not far off and the East River filling the space between them all.

They pass those tables and start up a staircase, previously barred off by a velvet rope. At the landing, they turn right and then to a private booth of black leather seating, glowing tealights, and that same perfect view. They take their seats while the hostess pours them glasses of water and then leaves them to look over their menus.

Harry sneaks a glance at Louis and then forgets to look away.

“You’re staring,” Louis says, eyes on his menu.

Harry props his elbow on the table — proper manners be damned — and rests his chin in his palm. “Can’t blame me for that.”

Louis smiles. “Stop flirting with me.”

“Why? Have you got a boyfriend?”

“I don’t know, do I?”

Harry lowers his menu. “Are you asking if I want you to call me your boyfriend?”

“I don’t know.” Louis shrugs. “Do you?”

Harry could just say ‘yes’ because that’s what his answer will be in the long run, but he likes the long run. He uses lengthy explanations in hopes that someone else will understand the chaos in his head, the thousand steps it takes him to get from point A to point B.

So he says, “You know that moment when you were younger and your parents finally thought you were old enough to date, so they let you go out alone for the very first time with someone you liked? That's how I feel right now."

Louis' smile grows slowly. "Like I'm your grade school boyfriend?"

"Yeah, you're my grade school boyfriend," Harry says. "That's exactly what I mean. And also, I guess, my current, adult boyfriend. I like the sound of that. Even if we can’t actually say it to anyone—”

“I told my sisters,” Louis says before he can finish. “Just Lottie and Fizzy. I was being weird on Christmas, apparently. Didn’t take them long to piece it all together.”

“Well, fuck,” Harry says. Here he’s been just suffering since Christmas, not daring to tell a soul. Technically that’s his fault, but still unbearable.

“Is that alright?” Louis asks.

“It’s fine,” Harry says, quickly. He opens his palm atop the table and Louis exhales a laugh that sounds more relieved than condescending. He rests his hand in Harry’s and watches as Harry presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Promise.”

“Now who’s romancing who?” Louis asks, fighting a smile.

Harry smiles, lifting his menu again.

“Did you ever actually have a grade-school boyfriend?” Louis asks while he scans his menu.

“No,” Harry says. “Cassie was the closest thing.”

“Did you ever have feelings for her?” Louis asks.

Harry sets his menu down again. “I tried to. Before and after Andy. When I saw how easily people accepted us as a couple, I tried to feel attraction and it wasn’t there. And then after Andy, after her parents insisted that we get married, I tried to tell myself that maybe it would be easier if we did marry. But it just wasn’t possible. Even if I somehow convinced myself to feel that way, she never would have. Cassie was my soulmate in a platonic sense. We were really good together, but never in that way. She’d say the same. How about you?”

Louis’ brows crease, just as the waiter comes to their secluded table. Louis orders the mushroom Wellington and asks the waiter to bring Merlot with the main dishes. Quickly, Harry decides on the duck breast. The waiter leaves them again, and Louis looks at him expectantly.

“Any grade-school boyfriends?” Harry clarifies.

“Oh. No, none. I had a girlfriend for a while, who I thought I genuinely fancied. She was one of my best friends too. We went to this party one night and I got pissed and I completely forgot she was even there. I spent all my time with this boy who was openly gay, smoking with him, drinking with him. I liked his attention, even if I didn’t know it at the time. Nothing happened with him but the next day my girlfriend, Hannah— She sits me down and before I could apologise, she says, ‘Louis, I think you might be gay.’”

Harry laughs, pressing his hand to his mouth. Louis chuckles too.

“I denied it for the next five months or so and then I just couldn't anymore. Once she said it, it was just stuck on my mind. By then, I was in the band with four lads that I’d absolutely snog if given the chance. I couldn't even pretend anymore.”

“That was your big gay moment.”

“Absolutely,” Louis says. “I didn’t have a boyfriend until the band was over with, and even then it took me another two years before I really tried dating anyone.”

Harry takes a second to process all of that. “I might have asked you this before, but do you want kids?”

Louis’ brows furrow again but he smiles. “Definitely.”

“Would you consider actually performing music again?”

“I feel like you’re going to write an article about me,” Louis says, his eyes narrowing.

“That’s been my plan all along,” Harry deadpans. “Seriously?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “I don’t know. I’ve written a lot lately, but I don’t know about performing. It’s not where my heart is at right now. I could ask you the same thing, though. I’ve heard your music. Andy sent me some of the tracks she got remastered.”

Again, Harry is speechless. He’s flattered if he’s being honest. But also, how close must Andy feel to Louis that she shared something so private in the first place? Is that odd or is Harry just paranoid?

Louis reads his apprehensiveness too easily. His tone turns reassuring. “She only mentioned it because she’s been writing new songs and she says she wants to draw inspiration from your music. She wanted my opinion on how to do it.”

“I get it,” Harry says, reaching for his wine. “I don’t mind.”

“Seems like you mind a little bit,” Louis says. “I have to say this. I think you sound incredible. You and Cassie both. If I were a producer back then, I would have made you a deal.”

“That was the dream,” Harry says. To become big musicians, tour the world, and never return home.

“Andy talked about covering one of your songs even,” Louis says. “I know you help her write, sometimes, which legally means you should be included in the writing credits.” Harry starts to shake his head but Louis goes on. “All that aside, I think it would be a cool idea if you were to consider writing a song for her. Maybe even singing with her. Release it as a single—”

“Louis,” Harry says. “I can’t do that. I don’t write anymore. I don’t do music anymore.”

“That’s not true. You write with Andy. You sing with her. She showed me one of your videos.”

Harry is going to have a serious talk with her when he gets home. He rubs his forehead. “It’s not the same thing. I don’t write for myself anymore. I do it for her, for her career. That’s it.”

“Why not consider it something you’re doing for her then?” Louis asks. “I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”

“I can’t,” Harry says with finality. “I don’t want any attention at all. I don’t want any fame, any recognition. I really mean that.”

Louis nods, releasing a heavy breath. “Okay.”

“It’s not my music the people want. It’s yours,” Harry says. “Release your secret album, then come talk.”

He’s saved from Louis’ snarky response to that by the waiter returning with their food. He pours them fresh glasses of wine and departs again.

They don’t talk about music again, thankfully.

They share dessert, which is tiramisu drizzled with a chocolate liqueur sauce and topped with raspberries. Louis keeps doing this thing. He waits until Harry goes for a particular piece and then goes for the same one. He does it three times before Harry sets his fork down.

“I give up,” he says.

Louis laughs. “Okay, I’m sorry. Here.”

Harry lifts his head and finds Louis’ fork extended to him, a bit of tiramisu there. He leans in, and Louis moves the fork backwards before dissolving into laughter again.

“I hate you,” Harry says.

“Not even a little bit.” Louis smiles, looking so tremendously pleased with himself. “Okay, seriously. Come here.”

Harry leans in again and Louis feeds him, finally. They look down when the moment’s passed, both a little rosy-cheeked, a lot giddy. Harry lifts his fork again and they finish up in a warm, content sort of silence.

They leave with a little over thirty minutes left before the New Year. The car and their driver are parked nearby but Louis says, “Let’s take a walk.”

Again they hold hands, which Harry can't remember doing this often with anyone before Louis. He can't remember liking it either. His palm always got sweaty or the hold on the other man's hand would be awkward. It's not like that with Louis. He’s wearing gloves which keep Harry’s hand warm and dry.

They walk the Brooklyn Promenade, which is a stretch of concrete positioned between the borough of Brooklyn Heights and the East River. Lamps dot the path every few feet, creating romantic patches of light. And the bridge in the distance stands twinkling like a collection of stars at the onslaught of another year.

“This is gorgeous,” Harry says, his breath a white blossom in the winter air.

“It is. It's one of the best places to catch fireworks too,” Louis says. “Not too crowded.”

“I'm really impressed,” Harry says, as they come to a stop and lean against the rails. “With you in general but specifically with your knowledge of New York.”

“I came a lot when I was younger,” Louis says. “It's easy to get lost here and I used to want that.”

They stuff their hands in their pockets. “Do you not anymore?” Harry asks.

“I want to get lost with someone else. Not by myself,” Louis says. “Gets boring after a while. And lonely.”

Harry looks away, his bottom lip bitten. He can feel Louis looking at him as he opens his mouth. “I have to ask you something,” he says. He looks at Louis, meeting his gaze. “What’s stopping you from coming out? I’m just curious to know if you’re ever planning to…or no?”

Louis’ Adam’s apple bobs. He rocks backwards on his heels. “Eventually, yeah. When I got to a point where I was no longer required to answer questions about relationships with women, I wasn’t jumping to the opportunity to discuss my relationships with men. I tried to avoid as much speculation as possible about who I was dating. I refused to answer questions about it. I was able to work with LGBT youth like I’d always wanted, but it was never about me. I still dated men but I refused to be the subject of some scandal or give the media — the same people who in a sense aided in closeting me — I refused to give them their feature. Even now, they see me with a woman and assume we’re dating.

“So I’ve just decided that eventually when I come out and I have to deal with the press and the chaos, it’ll be because I’ve found someone who’s worth it, someone I want to show off, whose hand I want to hold on red carpets. I just want it to be 100% for me and that person. I think I deserve that.”

“You do,” Harry says, and suddenly he feels like he has to touch him, so he does. He cups Louis’ jaw in both hands, thumbs moving back and forth across his skin like pendulums. Perhaps he can hypnotise them both, propel them to a place where the chaos doesn't even matter. “You deserve that.”

Louis’ smile radiates across his pink lips and in the squint of his eyes and the wrinkle of his nose. He looks at Harry’s mouth like he wants to kiss him but doesn’t. “What time is it?”

Harry glances at his watch. “11:56.”

Louis wraps both arms around Harry’s waist. “Almost there,” he says. “I have some place to take you after this if you’re not tired.”

“Tired? I’m not even considering sleep right now. Tomorrow, it’s back to business as usual, which means tonight has to last as long as possible.”

Louis lifts his brows. “Can think of a few ways to make that happen.”

“I probably thought of them already,” Harry says, smiling. He tilts his head. “You’ve got some freckles here, you know?” He touches them with his thumb and then one on the side of Louis’ neck. “I love freckles.”

“Don’t have any yourself?” Louis asks, inspecting his face. “Just the mole?”

“Just the mole, as far as I know,” Harry says. “Andy has freckles, but she gets them from Cassie.”

“Everything else from you though,” Louis says.

“No, the personality is her mum’s too,” Harry says. “Although I don’t know how much of that is genetics and how much of it is a result of me raising her. I think the kind of person I am demands the people around me to be sort of ruthless and sharp. Otherwise, I get caught in my own head and do silly things—” He’s talking too much. “She keeps me in check is all, like Cassie did.” He takes a deep breath and says quickly, “which I know sounds terrible because I’m the parent, but I think I keep her in check too. I hope.”

Louis laughs. “I think you’ve done really well so far. I’ve always thought so.”

“I know,” Harry says. He runs his fingers through Louis’ hair, the wispy ends that touch the nape of his neck. “I’m guessing you’re pretty similar to your mum.”

“You’d have to meet her and see,” Louis says.

A firework pops in the distance before Harry can respond to that, to Louis wanting him to meet his mother. It seems too soon to consider as much. Another firework goes off and Louis looks at him and Harry forgets the stroke of fear he feels. Louis is awash in colourful light like a supernova, and Harry leans in, has to kiss him.

“Happy New Year,” he says.

Louis holds him, his hands stroking Harry’s back. “Happy New Year.”

† 

The place Louis takes him afterwards is a Latin nightclub in a part of Brooklyn called Bushwick.

“Feel like dancing?” he asks him on the ride over.

“Always,” Harry tells him.

And so they end up here, their hands once again linked as they wander through the crowd at a packed nightclub. It’s so dark on the dance floor, the only real light being from the glowing necklaces and bracelets adorning swaying bodies. The only spotlights are on the DJ booth. There’s recessed lighting on the bar several feet away. This must have been why Louis choose this place. The very nature of it assures anonymity.

They order four shots at the bar, turning in towards each other as they take two each, back-to-back. And then Louis steers him back into the enclave of shifting, jiving strangers. He pulls Harry against his body and they start to sway together. They warm up to the music before letting it overcome them.

Louis puts his back to Harry’s chest. Harry wraps his arms around his shoulders and presses a kiss to the back of his neck. He’s grateful for the darkness and for the collective inebriation of mostly everyone in attendance. He’d hate for anyone to witness how quickly he reacts to Louis’ arse against his crotch. It’s very quickly.

They dance this way, and they dance the opposite way, and they dance facing each other. He likes it best when they’re face-to-face, and their thighs are wedged between the other’s, and they’re wrapped around each other so tightly there’s no clear point where Harry ends or Louis begins. He loves the way he smells and the way he feels and the way he tastes, and like this he gets all of it, saturated and condensed and potent.

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” he says into Louis’ ear before taking Louis’ earlobe between his teeth. Louis palms his arse, cups his hip, turns him, and steers him through the crowd again.

They don’t tear each other’s clothes off in the car. Harry sits on his hands so he’s not tempted.

“I want you to know,” he says. “You did very well for a first date, and I’m going to have a hard time showing you up.”

Louis grins, letting his head rest against the back of the seat. He looks incredible. His cheeks are flushed. His shirt and hairline are all slightly damp with sweat. He looks young and supple, and Harry wants to fuck him until neither of them can walk. It’s the intoxication talking. “That’s the whole point,” Louis says, with a smug smirk that makes things exponentially worse. “You can't.”

At the front desk, Louis asks for a bottle of champagne to be sent up to the room. It arrives while they’re shoving off their shoes and Harry has collapsed on the chaise by the window. It arrives with a dish of chocolate covered strawberries in tow.

Harry groans. “You’re killing me.”

Louis laughs, pulling off his blazer. He tosses it over the back of the couch, then rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. He pours the champagne with one hand, unbuttoning the top of his shirt with the other.

“I’m exhausted,” he says, plopping down beside Harry, who moves his legs to make room for him.

Harry takes a glass from him. “You should be.” He has a bite of his strawberry. “You deserve a nice long sleep.”

“Not yet,” Louis says.

Harry smiles, lifting his glass. “Cheers.”

“To?”

“The New Year,” Harry says. “And us.”

Louis taps his glass against Harry’s. “Cheers.” And then he gets up and heads over to the television. “You know, no one actually did a Latin dance in that club. The music was right, but the dancing wasn’t.”

Harry watches him, lifting another strawberry. “Do you know any Latin dances?”

“I do. I’ve known how to salsa for a while, and I’ve been learning the tango recently. It’s really difficult but fun.” Louis starts fooling around with the stereo, scanning through channels in search of something in particular. “I didn’t really expect anyone to tango at that club, but salsa would've been nice.”

“I don’t know either,” Harry tells him, regretfully. He finishes off his champagne.

Louis finally finds the right channel, which is, of course, one playing Latin music. “I’ll teach you.”

“Teach me what?” Harry asks, his eyes widening.

“The tango,” Louis says, approaching him again. “I’m not an expert though.”

“I’m going to step on your toes,” Harry tells him.

“Please don’t,” Louis says, opening both hands, and Harry takes them. He needs a moment to steady himself, feeling a bit dizzy.

“There are eight steps altogether and then you repeat,” Louis says, placing his right hand on Harry’s back. He takes Harry’s hand and places it on the back of his neck. “Just follow my lead. It’s simple.”

“It’s simple, he says.” Harry shakes his head. “I’m sorry in advance about your toes.”

Louis laughs and steps forward with his left foot. “Just do the opposite of me.” He steps forward with his right, and Harry steps backwards with his left. Another step forward with Louis’ left foot means another step back with Harry’s left. And then Louis moves to the right. And Harry steps on his foot.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve had too many shots to be doing this.”

“You’re fine. Feet together,” Louis says, moving his left foot to his right. “We’re going to try it with the music now.”

Harry nods as Louis steps close, welding their chests together.

“One, two. Three, four”—Louis counts as he starts to move again—“Five, six, seven, eight.” He smiles when he looks up. A lock of hair has fallen over his forehead. “Not too bad.”

Harry glances at him and then at their feet again. “Only because I’m clinging to you.”

“I don’t mind,” Louis says, moving forward again. “And repeat.”

Harry rests his head against Louis’ shoulder. He should watch their feet too, Louis’ hip presses into Harry’s when he wants him to move backwards. He leads well and Harry follows, wanton and loose-limbed and content. “I had fun tonight,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”

“You say that like I’m finished.”

Harry draws back to look him in the eyes. “What more did you have in mind?”

Louis smiles. “You can probably guess.”

Harry looks at his mouth. He runs his thumb down Louis’ jaw and over his bottom lip, their steps slowing to a halt.

“Think you’ve probably guessed right,” Louis says quietly.

Harry leans in and kisses him, open-mouthed and hungry right from the start. He unbuttons the rest of Louis’ shirt. He doesn’t know why it’s still on at all. He pushes it off, spreading his hands out on Louis’ shoulder blades and down his spine. “I think you’ve been wearing all of this for long enough,” he says, kissing his shoulder, his collarbone, his mouth again when he gets there. He unfastens Louis’ trousers and pulls them down, along with the pants, all the way down to his feet. Sitting on his haunches, Harry peers up at him, past his cock. “I think you should take me to bed.”

“Haven’t really left me much choice now,” Louis says, looking down at his naked body.

Harry smiles, getting to his knees, kissing Louis’ thigh. “I want to return the favour from Christmas morning.” He runs his lips over Louis’ length like he’s whispering a spell. “I want you in my mouth.”

Louis draws a sharp little breath, straightening his spine the way he does when he’s ready to assume control. “Get up then.”

Harry stands and takes Louis’ outstretched hand.

His hands— He loves how steady they are when he’s undressing him or when he’s pumping Harry up and down on his cock. It’s five in the morning when they stop fucking, stop talking, stop moving. Louis’ eyes have drifted shut and his breathing has evened out. His hands, one on Harry’s waist and another on Harry’s shoulder, are steady.

He's steady.

†

What Harry remembers most clearly is every notch and ditch in the road. The drive to hospital felt like being tossed into a blender, being in the centre of the whirlpool slowly pulling him down toward a certain death of twisted metal and blade. He’d always felt bound to Cassie in a visceral way. Her pain was his pain, and he wondered if this was her suffering that he felt now too. If the way the car shook as his dad raced down the motorway, was the tectonic shifting she’d felt before her car wrapped itself around that tree in Birmingham.

_There’s been an accident. Come quickly._

Paddy’s voice had landed abruptly on his sleepy ear. It was midnight, a day in January. They left Andy with Gemma at the house. He piled into the car with his parents like he’d done less than a year prior. This ride was unsteady. There was ice on the ground in their residential neighbourhood, but when they hit the motorway, the pitch had been covered with salt.

“Everything will be fine,” his mum said, reaching back to squeeze his forearm.

He hadn’t responded to her. He started crying at some point. He got angry. What was she doing out at midnight? Where was she headed? Why hadn’t she taken him too? He had no answers, and so he cried some more.

The shaking stopped. His dad had thrown the car into the first space he could find, and then they rushed to the sliding doors that looked like a mouth ready to swallow them whole. They were swallowed, into the odourless stench of hospital air and oppressive light, into the silence of waiting strangers.

“We’re here for Cassiopeia Noonan. She was in an accident.”

The woman sitting behind a sheet of glass looked his mum in the eye, and Harry knew. “Are you family?”

“Yes,” his mum said.

And to this, the woman replied, “I’m very sorry—”

His mum’s face crumbled like she’d been hit by an earthquake, every laugh line and freckle giving way to the sudden weight of grief. She had pulled him against her chest, expecting him to break down, and he would much later. For now, there was only confusion.

Pronounced dead on arrival, the woman had said, but Cassie had always arrived to any scene full of life.

Later, a police report would explain the tree and the icy conditions and all these terms that seemed too insignificant to take down someone like her. Cassie was Goliath, and this world had been the slingshot unworthy of finishing her off. Cassie was a natural disaster in and of herself, and the unsteady ground where she landed had never deserved her.

And perhaps she knew that in the end, and as proof, the Earth never seemed to stop shaking after she was gone.

†

**MARCH 2018**

He and Louis start to behave like an old married couple. Sometimes it's enough to just have tea together or watch a late night film or have dinner. They don't court each other with all the pomp and splendour allowed to new couples because it isn't allowed to them. They date simply and in many ways, it turns out to be well worth the wait.

There was a time when Harry wanted a loud romance, full of declarations and proclamations, but it isn’t like that with Louis, which is both a blessing and a curse.

Sometimes he misses the anonymity of New York and the simple freedom to hold Louis’ hand or kiss him out in the open. In February, following Andy’s extravagant 18th birthday bash, Louis takes him to France for his birthday and they spend the weekend lying around on a yacht, which is about as close as they come to doing anything for anyone to see.

Harry is a contradiction with arms and legs. He tells Louis no one can find out about them and in the next breath, wishes he could tell everyone.

It's like finding a new favourite song. Harry will play it and play it again and again until suddenly there's some part that no longer strikes him as profoundly as it first did. And suddenly the chorus is boring or he finds himself stopping at the bridge and replaying from the beginning.

And that's not to compare his relationship with Louis to a boring song. If he had to make any comparison, he'd say that Louis was a brilliant song and Harry only wished sometimes that he could play him loudly.

The thrill of a secret relationship only lasts so long before it begins to mellow out. And then Harry is left haunted by that secret. Maybe Louis feels it too, that things have been going too well behind closed doors, that pretending is losing its lustre.

Because one day at the chilly peak of March, he asks Harry to meet him at the studio.

“Do you know when Andy will be there? For rehearsal? I need to know to avoid her,” he tells Louis, mobile pressed to his ear. Belle starts biting at his socked toes again. He shakes her off.

“Come around noon. Should be fine,” Louis says.

Harry turns over in bed, setting the phone against the side of his head. “I’ll be there at noon, then.”

“Good,” Louis says, and then, “I haven’t seen you in almost two weeks.”

“I know. You miss me?”

Louis is quiet for a moment. “Unfortunately, yeah. I do.”

Harry smiles. “I’ll give you a big kiss when I see you.”

“And I’ll give you a bone.”

“So cruel,” Harry says. He lets his tired eyes close. “I miss you too.”

“I know,” Louis says.

Harry can’t think of anything else to say. “See you tomorrow, Lou. Good night.”

“See you then.”

Harry opens up shop first thing in the morning and gives Troye a list of things to take care of. No deliveries. Just some orders to prepare for tomorrow. Nothing too crazy. Troye, as usual, says he has it under control.

Harry starts out on the train to London. He sips his little thermos of tea and nods along to his music the whole way there. He doesn’t know what to expect. He doesn’t know why Louis couldn’t wait until tonight to see him. But he’s not complaining.

He arrives at 28 Productions, is waved through security, and then greets Frances at her desk.

“Louis told me to have you wait here,” she says. “I’ll just page him.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, shoving his hands into his pockets. He takes a glance around the waiting area. Being here has his nerves on edge. Any minute he expects Andy to appear from some doorway or corridor. How would he begin to explain being here?

And then Louis’ office door opens. Harry takes an eager step forward as Louis pulls the door shut.

“What are you up to?” Harry asks him.

Louis smiles. “You’ll find out. Follow me.”

Harry waves to Frances and then follows Louis into the lift. He looks at him, his eyes narrowed. “I thought you were going to pull me into your office, and lay a kiss on me.”

“I technically still could,” Louis says. The lift comes to a stop. “Or not. Come on.”

Harry steps out behind him and they venture down another corridor. They reach a glass door labelled ‘Studio C’. Louis swipes a badge attached to a lanyard around his neck and the door chimes. He pushes it open and gestures for Harry to step inside.

And there’s Andy.

“Hi,” she says, grinning. She’s perched on a stool with her guitar in her lap, a pair of headphones around her neck. In front of her is a mic.

“Hi,” Harry says slowly. He glances at Louis and receives a smile that’s meant to be reassuring. It isn’t.

“So,” Andy says. “I asked Louis to invite you here because I have a surprise for you.”

Harry wants to look at Louis again, but he can’t. This is the first time since they started dating that they’ve all been together, and it’s just them. Just the three of them in this tiny room. “I like surprises,” he says, clearing his throat.

“I know,” Andy says. “You’re really gonna like this one.”

“Come with me,” Louis says to him, nodding to a door off to the side. It leads to the digital audio workstation with three computer monitors, two chairs, and a glass pane ahead of them. On the other side, Andy waves as Harry takes a seat.

Harry chances a glance at Louis.

“Here,” Louis says, handing him a set of headphones.

Harry slips them on and adjusts his hair.

“Okay,” Louis says, flipping a nameless switch. He looks at Andy. “Ready?”

Andy nods, adjusting her guitar, positioning her fingers on the fretboard.

Louis taps a computer key. “Session One,” he says. “Andromeda Styles.”

Andy begins to strum, the rhythm fast from the onset. But even with the speed, Harry recognises the tune. He can almost see Cassie playing now, her voice high on the chorus:

_I need someone to come save me_

_No capes, no armour, no army_

_Just take my hand and take the leap_

_Be my hero, save me, set me free_

She smiles and strums, nodding her head to the beat. She does the runs like her mother. Even with the increased speed, she's modified every part of Cassie’s song to suit her purposes now, like she's been listening to the song incessantly, studying it, memorising it like an anthem.

“Be my hero, come and set me free,” she sings, her ringed fingers sliding from fret to fret. “I'll follow you if you find me. Just be my hero. Come and set me free.”

Harry purses his lips and presses his fingers into his biceps. He's trying not to cry. He doesn't want to cry in front of Louis. He can think of a million other things actually that he'd rather do.

“Alright?” Louis asks.

Harry nods without looking at him. He shoots Andy two thumbs up. “That was—”

“Wait,” Louis says, flipping a switch. “She can hear you now.”

“Right,” Harry says. He looks at Andy again. “That was incredible.”

She grins. “Louis has been helping me like rework things a bit, and I think I’m finally happy with this version. He’s been helping me with a piano part too.”

Harry glances at Louis and then quickly away. “You’d slow it back down?”

“No, same tempo, but with a fast upbeat piano part to accompany it,” Andy says, talking with her hands the way Harry does. “Lou, could you play it now? It’s not quite ready but maybe a bit of it?”

“Yeah, sure,” Louis says, pulling off his headphones. He stands and says to Harry, “Just hit this key here when we’re ready to start. Call it ‘Session Two, Andromeda Styles, Louis Tomlinson’, yeah?”

Harry nods. “Got it.”

Louis’ eyes narrow almost imperceptibly and then he heads back through the door. He takes a seat at the baby grand positioned behind Andy. “Ready?” he asks her.

“Ready.”

They look at Harry.

“Uh—” Harry taps the keyboard. “Session Two. Andromeda Styles, Louis Tomlinson.”

Louis smiles and then he starts on the piano keys, fingers moving quickly. Separated by the glass, Harry feels safe to stare and admire him. Andy joins in, strumming just as rapidly. She looks at Louis and he looks at her. The expression he wears is one Harry recognises. It’s pride. He’s proud of her. Harry isn’t even listening to the music. He’s just looking at Louis looking at his daughter the way Harry has looked at her his whole life.

When it comes to an end, he’s got that image branded into the backs of his eyelids.

“What did you think?” Andy asks him after Louis has stepped out of the studio. He has a meeting he needs to get to immediately. “What did you really think?”

“I loved it,” Harry says. “ _Really_.”

“You seemed a little distracted for a second there” Andy loops the strap of her guitar across her chest.

“By you, yeah,” he says. “You sound so much like your mum. I had a blast from the past or something.”

Andy laughs. “Stop it.”

“I’m serious,” Harry says. “You were great. I mean that.”

“Thank you,” she says. She leans forward, thumping her head against his chest.

He props his chin atop her head and hugs her. “Thank _you._ ”

“I have to go,” Andy mumbles. “We’ve got a wardrobe thing to do. For the tour.” She steps back with a roll of her eyes. “Everyone’s having a meltdown over the whole thing. Mercy and Kendra want to do leotards and dresses. Rose is actually with me for the first time ever and says we should go for something more casual. We should be grateful we’re getting any choice at all when we’re just starting out.”

“Why not mix it up? Go with one look for some concerts, a different look for others,” Harry says. “Everyone’s happy.”

Andy shrugs. “I’ll suggest it to them and get back to you.”

He follows her through the glass door and blows her a kiss as he steps into the lift. He can’t linger around here, outside of Louis’ office or even in the main lobby. He’s suddenly hyper-aware of his presence here: the one parent that Mr Tomlinson invites for private sessions with his kid, the parent he’s particularly fond of.

And Andy, the one Louis looks at like one of his own.

Harry ends up in a nearby Starbucks with a cup of coffee cooling in front of him. He drinks half of it when the call comes through. He answers immediately.

“Hey,” Louis says. “You didn’t order food, did you?”

“No, just a coffee,” Harry says. “How was your meeting?”

“It was pretty standard. You know, the usual,” Louis says. “I’m heading to the car now. Want to join me for lunch?”

Harry rips his Starbucks coffee collar in half. “Sure.”

“I’ll be in the Suburban pulling up outside of Starbucks in two.”

He rips it in quarters. “Sounds good.”

The Suburban eases up to the kerb like a shiny-scaled dragon, right on time. Harry dumps his coffee cup and the remnants of his coffee collar. He heads outside, pulls the rear passenger door open, slips inside.

The door shuts with a heavy thud. Harry looks at Louis beside him, receiving a smile.

“Where to?” Harry asks.

Louis shrugs. “How about pizza?”

“I’m always up for pizza,” Harry says. He licks his lips, feeling Louis’ gaze glued to him as the car pulls back onto the road.

“So?” Louis says.

Harry looks at him, lifting his brows.

“How was it?” Louis asks. And when Harry says nothing, he adds, “The studio time? The song?”

Harry dries his palms on his jeans. “I think no matter how I word this, it’s going to come out sounding wrong.”

Louis’ smile, however fleeting it was, is gone. “So, not good, then?”

“I just wish you’d warned me,” Harry says.

“Kind of defeats the purpose of a surprise.”

“I get that, but I wish you’d warned me. I would’ve told you that I didn’t think we were ready for this.”

Louis puts some space between them as he angles his body to face Harry. “Ready for what?”

“For the three of us together. For me, you and her alone in a room, in the studio,” Harry says. “Like we were on an intimate family outing.”

“A _what_?” There’s silence after that. Stifling silence. The kind that manifests like hands around your neck. Louis glances out the tinted window. “That’s what it seemed like to you?”

“Yes,” Harry says. “Something like that.”

Louis looks at him like he’s an idiot. He does that sometimes, whether he means to or not. It drives Harry mad. “You think I'm trying to be her dad too?” Louis asks.

“I don't know,” Harry says. That’s the wrong answer but it’s the first one that comes to him. “You’re doting on her and playing piano with her and working on her mum’s music—”

“Jesus, Harry. Did you forget that I’m her producer?”

“But you weren’t being her producer, Louis. It wasn’t business. You were doing it for me. You did it because you thought it’d be a nice gesture for me. And I’m telling you I wasn’t ready for it. I wasn’t ready to be in a situation where I feel paranoid about how often I’m looking at you or if I’m not looking at you enough to seem normal. And even if you did it just for Andy, it still isn’t fair to the other girls. I don't think you’ve given the same amount of attention to them. This is what she was afraid of. That my involvement with you would make a favourite out of her—”

“I have to stop you there,” Louis says. “Andy was a favourite while you were still fucking around and pretending to be my friend. I really, _really_ doubt that my feelings about her as an artist have anything to do with my feelings for you. Andy’s a favourite because she’s good. She’s really fucking good and she’s going far. That’s my honest, professional opinion. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

“I wasn't pretending to be your friend.”

“Call it what you want,” Louis says. “Maybe I overstepped. But this all makes me wonder. You’re going to have to tell her eventually, yeah? About us? That’s your plan, isn’t it? Or are you betting we won’t last long enough for that to be necessary?”

Harry’s heart falls through his ribcage. “Wow,” he says. “Stop the car.”

Louis sighs heavily. To the driver, he says, “Stop the car.”

The car slows to a stop at the kerb.

Harry reaches for the door handle. “Thanks for being so honest. It’s good to know you’re just waiting for me to disappoint you.”

“Harry,” Louis says and then nothing more. He shakes his head and stares through his window, his lips pressed in a tight line, his fist curled.

Harry pushes the car door open, issuing a terse “bye” as he climbs out. If Louis responds, Harry misses it.

†

It makes no sense that the first argument in a relationship is seen as some milestone. Maybe if two people argued about something silly and exposed all the raw passion they felt for each other and engaged in explosive make-up sex afterwards, Harry might understand. But his first argument with Louis feels like death.

He’s sitting in the Jeep, parked outside of Andy’s building. It’s rainy, grey and bleak. There’s a persistent draft that somehow seeps into the car, even with the heat on. And he wonders if this is what hell looks like. An endless dull white. No clouds and surely, no sun in sight.

He’s experienced Louis’ anger or disappointment directed his way more than enough times. He doesn’t know if it's because he keeps fucking up or if they’re doomed or both.

Louis said things in his abrasive way. He said them with his sharp tongue and so they cut and they hurt. But maybe he was right. Maybe Harry is holding out long enough to see them fall apart so that he never has to tell Andy and she never has to hate him. Maybe he’s afraid of what happens when he lets Louis get too close, when they meet each other’s families, when he admits to himself that he loves him a little bit.

When he drops his head to the steering wheel, he catches the horn in the process, honking at some unsuspecting couple passing by his Jeep. He lifts a hand, waving in an apology, and then tilts his head back instead.

It’s been a whole day, and he feels like death.

Andy appears beside the car door, waving before she slips inside. “Hi,” she says, leaning in for a hug. “How are you?”

“Good,” Harry says. “How about you?”

“Good,” she says. “Okay, I was going to show you at the restaurant but I can’t wait.” She pulls her leather jacket down and shows him her shoulder blade.

“Oh my God,” Harry says, leaning close. “Is that real?”

“Of course it is,” she says. “It was a birthday gift to myself.”

She’s got a tattoo, right there on her freckled shoulder. It’s an ornately crafted bee with a dotted line trailing after it to show its path of flight, and that dotted line spells out a cursive letter C.

Harry smiles. “I love it. Your mum would too.”

“But wait there’s more!” Andy says, turning in her seat, shrugging her jacket back into place. She pulls the sleeve up, exposing her forearm, a set of bangles rattling as she does.

“Holy shit,” Harry says. “Are you going to show me a whole leg piece next?”

“That's still in the works,” Andy says. She waves her forearm in front of his face. “Look at it!”

Harry looks. The tattoo on the inner part of her forearm is a rose. It’s in the exact same place as Harry’s rose tattoo, of a similar design but smaller. Just beneath it is a cursive letter H.

“Sick, yeah?” she says, looking at him.

It must be the combination of his frustration with Louis and what he feels now that causes his eyes to sting and fill with water. “Really sick,” he says, sounding choked.

“Are you crying?” Andy asks, incredulously.

“No,” Harry says, pressing his fingertips into his eyelids. He laughs. “That’s just a really sweet thing to do. It’s beautiful. It looks great. Thank you.”

Andy’s smile is small. “Well, you have my birthdate tattooed, you and mum.”

Harry presses his finger to a spot on his chest, right over his heart. "Here."

“I figured it was time I joined the club,” Andy says, knocking her arm against his.

Harry looks at her for a moment. “I think we should get ice cream,” he says, starting the car.

“Before lunch?”

“Why not?”

There's no reason she or anyone else could name. So she shrugs and buckles herself in.

Over ice cream, he thinks of a bouquet. Peonies, sunflowers, roses, craspedias. He thinks of a colour scheme. Yellow reminds him of Louis. It speaks to the brightness of his personality. And when he laughs, Harry always thinks of the sun.

“And then I died.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “Wait, what?”

“Oh, good. I thought you were going deaf,” Andy says, shaking her head. “You know, when you texted me ‘I miss you’, I actually felt guilty. Because I know I’ve been skipping out on our weekends together. And I know Friday didn't really count.”

What she doesn’t know is that Harry has been spending all those weekends with Louis. He can’t say he ever really minded. He used to crave time with her and now he can go weeks without seeing her or forgets her when she’s sat right in front of him.

“But you seem fine,” Andy says. “You’re not even paying attention to me.”

Harry sighs. “I’m so sorry.” He sticks his spoon in his ice cream. “What were you saying? I’m listening, I promise.”

“I don’t know if I even want to tell you anymore.”

“Come on,” Harry says, tiredly. “Please?”

“I want to bleach my hair,” she says. “I talked to Louis’ sister, Lottie, about it. She does hair and makeup, and her hair has been silver for years. And she loves it. She said she’d do mine.”

“Silver,” Harry says.

“Yeah, like a platinum blonde,” Andy says. She looks down at herself, at the heather grey sweatshirt she’s wearing. “Sort of like this.”

“But I like your hair brown,” Harry says. “We match.”

Andy looks at him with a sympathetic pout. “It’ll still be curly.”

“I can’t keep up with you at all,” Harry says. “Speaking of which, I follow you on Snapchat, you know?”

Andy looks down at her plate. “I know.”

“Was that a blunt or a cigarette?” Harry asks, ducking and tilting his head, trying to catch her gaze. “I’d prefer it be weed.”

“It was one cigarette,” Andy says. “And I don’t do it often.”

Harry rests his head against his fist. “Why do it at all?”

“I don’t know. Why do you do it?”

“I don’t,” Harry says.

Andy gives him a look. “The car smelled completely of smoke.”

“Okay. I do it when I’m stressed. Only when I’m stressed,” Harry says.

“Well, so do I.”

“What are you so stressed about that you need to start smoking?”

“I’ve got a lot to be stressed about,” Andy says. “You wouldn’t know because you’re always busy. Or like distracted. I’ve got a lot to be stressed about. Like the tour coming up. Or like dating.”

“Are you dating?”

“No. Not really. But I’ve been meeting people. Fans mostly.”

Harry leans close, dropping his voice to a hiss. “Are you _sleeping_ with fans?”

“No,” Andy says. “Like one, technically. But I was really drunk and the other girls have done it.”

Harry drops his hands in his lap. “I don’t want to lecture you, so I won’t. I just want you to be careful. And not smoke. Please stop smoking. I think silver hair would look lovely on you. I’ll miss the brown but I’ll get over it. Please use protection. Get tested regularly.”

“Christ, I will,” Andy says. “I’m being careful.”

“Stop smoking,” Harry says. He pleads with his gaze.

“I’ll stop smoking.”

“Send me pictures when Louis’ sister does your hair.”

Andy smiles. “I will.” She digs her spoon into her ice cream. “Seriously, what’s going on with you?”

“I’ve just been really busy lately,” Harry says. “You know, I’ve been thinking about hiring someone else. We could really use some extra help. That’s all.”

He can’t tell if she believes him or not, although she says, “I’ll keep my eye out for someone.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Harry says, lifting his spoon. “Here, let me taste yours. You can taste mine.”

As they swap ice cream bowls, two girls approach the table tentatively. Harry notices first and nudges Andy’s foot beneath the table. Her eyes widen a bit. She sets her spoon down.

“Hi, Andy,” one of them says.

Andy lifts her hand. “Hi.”

The other girl looks at Harry. “Hi, Mr Styles.”

“Hello,” Harry says, smiling.

“Um, do you mind if we get a picture or your autograph, please?” the same girl asks, and Andy, of course, says that she doesn't. They have one of those new age Polaroid cameras in pastel pink. She asks them for their names, and signs the photographs for them after Harry takes them.

He watches her, trying to just feel proud, and he does. But he also can’t help thinking of Louis and of LA and that night in the hotel cafe, and he misses him terribly.

Then he thinks again of the bouquet.

†

He never allowed men to get close to Andy. He hadn't made it far enough with anyone to allow that to happen. Any sincere interest in her was deflected immediately.

Maybe that's been his mistake.

It's not just about keeping her safe. It's about keeping himself safe. It's the fear of building a connection with someone who also develops a connection with his daughter and potentially having to sever that relationship at two points of contact. He never wants that.

How often has he blamed men for running because he’s a father? How often has he just pushed them away? He thinks of Peter. Their relationship was his longest before Louis, meaning it lasted about a month. Peter loved children. He asked Harry on their first date if he wanted kids someday, and Harry told him he had a six-year-old already.

“I’d love to meet her,” Peter had said, his face lighting up. At the time, Harry had even fooled himself into thinking he'd want that too.

And then he just never let it happen.

He’d just finished with Andy’s bath. She pulled on an old T-shirt while Harry combed her hair. She was babbling about something that he couldn’t make sense of.

“All done,” Harry said. “Want to go watch some telly?”

“The Incredibles,” she said, climbing off the bed without waiting for his help. And then she looked up at him expectantly.

Harry huffed a laugh, swinging her up into his arms. “Good idea.” He headed into the living room, kicking toys out of the way. “And some tea and biscuits. How's that?”

Andy hummed, her small hand curling up in his hair. She dropped her head against his shoulder. She wouldn't make it through the whole movie. After tea, she'd grow sleepy. She always did. He gave her ten minutes tops.

He set the film up for her anyhow. He fixed her a cuppa, blew on it until it was warm, and brought it to her with a plate of biscuits. She curled up in his lap. Sitting there, she knew he'd plait her hair. He always did. They were often lopsided but she'd insist on wearing them to bed.

His phone buzzed at the start of his second plait with a message from Peter.

**‘Passing through. Can I stop by?’**

Harry glanced at Andy. Her eyes were beginning to droop.

“What?” she said, blinking them open. She sounded affronted.

Harry smiled. “Nothing.”

 ** _‘In a half hour,’_** he sent back.

Andy was out in the next seven minutes, her head falling backwards and thumping against his chest. He stood, carrying her like a wood log across both arms. He nudged her bedroom door open with his foot, laid her down, dragged the duvet up around her, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

He had a few minutes to shower and when he was dressed in a clean T-shirt and jeans, he hurried down to the flower shop. He stood by the door, peeking out at the road, chewing his nail.

Peter’s blue Mini Cooper eased into a parking space a few steps away from the front of the shop. Harry unlocked the door and let him in. “Hi,” he said smiling.

“Hi,” Peter said. He pushed Harry by the hips against the door and kissed him.

“You need be quick,” Harry said, pulling him into the back. “And quiet.”

“Is your kid here?” Peter asked, fussing with his belt buckle. Harry pushed his hands away and undid the bloody thing for him.

“She’s asleep.” Harry shoved a condom into his hand. “I’m all ready to go.”

And then he turned around, bracing his hands against the worktop. Andy usually slept through the night. He wasn’t worried that she’d wake up. And even if she did, he wasn’t far. It made him more anxious that another man was here, especially this man who’d asked several times to meet her.

“I have a niece,” Peter said, pushing inside. “She’s about your daughter’s age. Maybe they could be friends.”

Harry shut his eyes. He could think of better things to chat about during a fuck. Or they could just not chat at all.

He heard the squeal of the door hinges just above them.

“Wait,” he whispered.

Peter didn't hear him, still grunting softly, thrusting.

“Dad?” The voice was a tentative gossamer sound.

“Stop,” Harry hissed.

Peter stopped. “What is it?”

“Daddy!” Andy’s voice was glass and ice. He could count the times he'd heard her that way with one hand. She wasn't easy to visibly frighten.

Harry hurried to the stairwell, dragging his jeans up to his waist. He peeked around the wall, and there Andy stood at the top of the landing, dressed in her T-shirt, holding her stuffed bear. “I’ll be right there, baby. One second.”

“Thought you said she was asleep,” Peter noted.

Harry turned to him. “She was.”

“Sounds like she had a bad dream. We could go up and have tea, the three of us.”

“She’s already had tea and she doesn't know you. That'd only scare her more.”

“Whose fault is that?” Peter said. “I'm starting to think you don't want me to meet her at all.”

Andy started crying. Not the loud wailing you'd expect from a child her age. But softer, so quiet you'd miss it. Harry nearly missed it.

“That's not true,” Harry said. “Peter, you have to leave. Please just go.”

“How are we supposed to make this work if I don't even know your daughter?”

“I don't know,” Harry said. “And right now, I don't actually care. Just go.” He hurried into the flood of light from the doorway. Andy was sitting now, her legs pulled against her chest, a stuffed bear sprawled beside her. Harry took the steps two at a time. She looked up at him, face blotchy and wet.

“I’m here,” he said, reaching for her. “I’m sorry.”

Her hands curled up like a claw in his hair. Her legs around his hips were too tight. She pressed her face into his neck. “They took Mummy.”

Harry stilled. “Who did?”

“I don't know,” Andy mumbled. “They were coming for you too.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” Harry said. “I promise.”

“Daddy,” Andy whispered, her arms and legs tightening further. He could hardly breathe. “Who’s that man?”

Harry looked down the landing and saw Peter standing there, looking up. He waved, not at Harry but at Andy. Harry pushed the door closed, locked it. “It's alright. Just came to buy flowers is all,” he said, walking slowly towards Andy’s room.

“But it’s dark out.”

Harry sighed. “And you’re the smartest little girl in the world.” He put her down. “Up to bed, please?”

She climbed onto the mattress and pulled her duvet up beneath her arms. “Will you stay?”

“Of course.” Harry climbed in beside her, turning towards her. “I’m sorry I left you.” He pulled her close, brushing her hair away from her forehead. “Promise I won’t do it again.”

He broke up with Peter the next day. Because things were too stressful. Because their relationship wasn't allowing him to be a proper dad. He'd come up with plenty of reasons. But now he's not sure of any.

Harry got himself out of bed in the mornings for Andy. He ambled through the muck of life for Andy. His heart beat and burned because of her. For her.

Perhaps Peter had come a little too close to the flame.

†

Troye is just telling him about wanting to go to Morocco when Harry’s phone starts ringing. He clips the stem of the tulip in his hand, dunks it into a vase, and then reaches into the pocket of his apron.

“This is Harry,” he says without looking at the screen. He’s been getting those calls from telemarketers lately. He really should know better.

“Hey.”

Harry nearly drops his shears. Definitely not a telemarketer. He steps away from the counter and into the back, whispering, “Hi.” He moves into the corner between the cooler and a work table, turning his body toward the wall.

“I just got this beautiful delivery of flowers,” Louis says.

“Oh?” Harry smiles. “I don’t know if I like that — strange men sending you flowers.” He’s missed the sound of Louis’ laughter. He shuts his eyes, resting his head against the wall, listening to it. “Do you like them?”

“They’re alright,” Louis says, then laughs again. “I love them. I can’t stop looking at them or taking pictures. They’re perfect.”

Harry’s smile widens impossibly. “Good,” he says, pulling a loose thread from the hem of his apron. “I hope you’ll consider it part one of my apology. And I hope you’ll want to talk soon. In person?”

“Could you come by tonight?” Louis asks.

Harry exhales. “Yes, I’ll be there.”

“Good. Thank you again for the flowers. They're just— perfect,” Louis says. Harry can hear the smile in his voice. He only wishes he could see it too. “See you tonight.”

Harry finishes up a few bouquets and maybe he does them too quickly and maybe they aren’t his best. He leaves Troye to close up shop. He might need to give him a raise or something, to make up for all the time he’s spent away since he started seeing Louis. He definitely will.

Belle occupies the passenger seat as Harry starts his drive to London, thinking of what he’ll say to Louis, what he’ll do. He wants to kiss him at the doorway. As soon as he opens the door, he wants to crash into him. Probably he won't.

First, he needs to apologise. He's good at that, which might not be a good thing. If a person is always apologising, what does that say about the person?

He rings the doorbell and waits. He considers praying before he remembers that he hasn’t prayed in years.

When Louis opens the door, he’s wearing that smile and a black jumper. Both look perfect on him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Harry says. Beside him, Belle sniffs Louis’ barefoot. “I hope you don’t mind I brought a guest.”

Louis looks at Belle and smiles. “I don’t mind at all.”

Harry lifts the paper bag he’d packed before leaving. “I also brought some plant seeds. I thought it’d be nice to get some vegetation going around here. I’ve got sunflower seeds, tomato seeds, and pepper seeds. Might be fun to plant them, yeah? When there’s time.”

“Wow,” Louis says.

“Good wow? Or bad wow?”

“Good wow. Usually, always a good wow,” Louis says, resting his head against the doorframe. “Never had anyone offer to cultivate my garden for me before.”

“Sounds kinky,” Harry says. “I’m not doing it _for_ you. You’re going to help.”

“I’d be up for that,” Louis says.

“Are you going to let me in?” Harry asks. “Or do I have to stay out here on the step?”

“Still deciding,” Louis says, and then pushes the door open. “Get in here, Styles.”

Harry follows him to the kitchen and unhooks Belle’s leash. He folds it up, stuffing it, along with his hands, into the pockets of his leather jacket. He and Louis look at each other, Louis with his arms folded.

“I missed you,” Harry says, combing his hair away from his forehead. “I keep messing this up and that’s not my goal — to ruin everything. I’m not looking forward to the moment we fall apart. I don’t want that to happen.”

Louis looks down at his socked feet. “Sorry for suggesting you did.”

“Maybe it was deserved,” Harry says. “I’m not ready to tell her. I don’t think she’s ready for me to tell her either. And it feels like that's where we’re headed.”

“No,” Louis says. He draws a breath. “I get that I put you on the spot, and I’m sorry. I didn’t do it because I expect you to tell her anytime soon. I wouldn’t want you to do that until it felt right.”

Harry nods. “Okay.”

“I missed you too,” Louis says quietly.

“Well, I'm here,” Harry says, smile reappearing. “And I'm assuming you want me to stay? And maybe come a little closer?”

Louis makes that face again, his nose scrunched up. “Don’t push your luck,” he says. Harry pouts, and finally, Louis laughs. He takes a step closer, his eyes on Harry, unfolding his arms like he's going to slide his hands over Harry’s hips, maybe. Harry needs that. He pulls his hands from his pockets, ready to receive him.

Louis ducks down and goes for Belle, a smug smirk on his face. He scratches her head, and his eyes drift up to meet Harry’s. “She can stay,” Louis says.

“Oh, enough,” Harry says, leaning down. He cups Louis’ face in both hands and kisses him. Louis laughs and stands, allowing Harry to kiss him again, kiss him properly. And he hopes all his anxiety and fear are undetectable in the swipe of his tongue.

Louis rests his head on Harry’s shoulder. “Can we go to bed now?”

“Please,” Harry says.

Louis takes his hand, turning off the lights on their way to the bedroom. Belle follows them there.

†

In the light of morning, Louis’ skin is such a luxurious gold Harry thinks of himself as Midas. For a minute, he just watches him. He studies the soft sweep of his chestnut hair across his forehead. The slope of his brows. The rush of his eyelashes like waterfalls approaching his cheekbones. The golden skin covering his biceps and his shoulders where he has a few freckles. Harry moves in closer to him, resting an arm across his back. He shuts his eyes and returns to sleep.

When he wakes the next time, he's alone in bed. He turns over and stares at the ceiling before spreading his hand out on the wrinkled sheets beside him. They’re cool. He grabs his mobile and shuffles out of bed. His body is sore. Not because he didn't sleep well.

He finds Louis in his office, staring at his computer screen with two bluish squares of light reflected on the surface of his glasses. This space isn't at all like the one at work. The massive bookshelf built into the wall behind Louis is cluttered with books and papers and even board game boxes. The desk is still big but it's a warm cherry wood with antique engravings. An empty food container, a beer bottle and a bag of peanut M&M’s decorate the surface. The windows along the side of the room feed light to the interior past dark blue curtains. There's a recliner by those windows, a blazer thrown across the back. A fireplace. Some socks lying on the floor. Pepper dwelling in the windowsill. Harry loves it here.

“Hey,” Louis says when he finally notices him.

“Good morning,” Harry says. He kisses him. “Nice flowers.”

Louis smiles, glancing at Harry’s bouquet positioned at the opposite end of his desk. It's polished vase reflects a bright patch of sunlight. Its blooms are still fresh because Harry ensured they would be. “I think so too.”

Harry leans against the edge of Louis’ desk. He observes the papers spread out around him, and the jumble of words on his computer. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Same thing I’m always doing.”

With a sigh, Harry steps behind Louis’ desk chair and begins to knead his shoulders. “You work too hard.”

“That’s the only way you get anything done,” Louis says. He pulls his glasses off and tilts his head back. Harry smiles, running his hands down his chest. He slides his arms across his shoulders.

“You need to relax.”

Louis’ hands come to rest on his forearms. He reclines his head further, chin lifted. “I’m relaxed.”

Harry kisses him again. “I’m not convinced.” He steps in front of him, sets his hands on his knees and pushes them apart. He kneels. “I’m going to help you relax.”

Louis drops his pen on the desk. “I’m listening.”

“You should be.” Harry pushes his hands up Louis’ thighs, all the way to his groin, and drags them back down to his kneecaps. He does it again, up and down, slowly and firmly. He massages his thighs, giving them a periodic squeeze. Louis reacts to him almost immediately. Harry lifts his brows, gaze directed at Louis’ crotch and the erection beginning to indent the soft fabric of his sweats. “Doesn’t seem very relaxed.”

Louis laughs, thumping his head on the back of his chair. “Maybe if you give it a kiss, it'll settle down.”

“Something tells me that won’t work.”

“You’re such a fucking tease,” Louis says.

Harry moves closer, sliding his hands up to Louis’ groin again. This time he keeps going, snags the drawstring threaded through the waistband and loosens it. Then he pulls Louis’ cock free, gives him a squeeze and releases.

“Should be able to breathe a little better now,” Harry says, hands back on Louis’ thighs.

Louis groans. “Are you serious?”

“What’s the matter, love?”

“How’s this supposed to help me relax?”

“Is it not working?” Harry asks, arching a brow.

“Not really, no.”

Harry leans in, pushes Louis’ foreskin down slowly and swipes his tongue across the head. “Does that help?”

“Somewhat,” Louis says, squeezing his hand into a fist. “Maybe try it again.”

Harry smiles. He licks from the base to the tip, before he's sheathing the head with his whole mouth. Louis shifts slightly in his seat. His hand slides through Harry’s hair, holding it back.

“Beginning to feel a little better now.”

Harry laughs with his mouth full, little bursts of air exhaled through his nose. He begins to suck with some purpose, relaxing himself. He's grown addicted to the feeling of Louis on his tongue. He's heavy and thick and throbs whenever he gets close. Each salty drop of precome makes Harry thirstier. Louis in the clutches of pleasure is the most beautiful, heavenly thing Harry has ever seen. That’s why he keeps his eyes on him, even when the angle makes it difficult.

Louis presses his thumb against Harry’s dimple. He must feel his cock protruding periodically against Harry's cheek. “You’re perfect.”

Harry lifts away for air and smiles. “Feeling relaxed yet?”

Louis strokes his bottom lip. “Getting there.”

Harry leans in again, dragging his lips up and down and all over. He opens his mouth and directs the entire length of him toward the back of his throat. He takes Louis’ hand, pushing it back into his hair, and Louis’ fist tightens. Harry digs his nails into Louis’ soft hips and gags himself. His eyes well with tears. He can’t breathe but doesn’t care to.

“Jesus Christ,” Louis exhales.

Harry moans obscenely. They’re the only ones in this massive house and he can make as much noise as he wants. He even has the nerve to choke audibly. He pulls off again with a gasp, his lips filthy and wet.

“Up,” Louis says.

Harry shakes his head. “I’m not done.”

“I said up.”

Harry stands. “You don’t sound very relaxed, baby,” he says, his voice growing hoarse.

Louis makes a visible effort not to laugh. “Bend over the desk,” he says, as he pulls Harry into the space between his chair and his large wooden desk. He presses a hand to the centre of his back and forces him down. Smiling, Harry spreads his torso across Louis’ desk, pushing a stack of papers to the side. He presses his face to the cool wood.

“Like this, Mr Tomlinson?”

“Like that.”

“Are you going to fuck me?” Harry asks, lifting his shirt out of the way.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Louis drags Harry’s pants down to his knees. “I’ve got something better for you.”

He presses a kiss to the back of Harry’s bare thigh, running his hands up along his sides.

“You’re unreal. Could just sit and look at you all day,” Louis says, his warm breath coasting over Harry’s bottom. He kisses him there too. And bites. It hardly hurts but Harry hisses anyhow.

“Lots of pretty words from that pretty mouth,” he murmurs. “Why don’t you put it where it counts?”

Louis bites him again, this time on his right arse cheek, and sucks. Harry groans, curling his fingers into a fist. “You’re one to talk about pretty mouths,” Louis says. “But I hear you.”

He spreads him apart without further pretence and licks right up through his crease, greedily as if Harry were made of honey and Louis were a bee. Both hands curl around Harry’s hips and he does it again and again. Harry’s eyes roll closed and each swipe of Louis’ tongue has bright spots waxing and waning behind his eyelids. His toes curl the way they do after he’s had a good meal or when he’s woken in the morning after resting well. Simple pleasures. Louis’ mouth is the simplest pleasure of them all.

“How’s that, baby?” Louis asks, wrapping a hand around Harry’s cock. “Count enough for you?”

“Getting there,” Harry echoes, his voice embarrassingly brittle to his own ears.

He shouldn't test him. He knows how Louis gets when he's tested. He responds to any challenge like his life depends on it. And so he mouths and sucks at Harry's rim like that's the case here too.

Harry reaches for his cock and begins to stroke himself, just as Louis lands a slap on his arse.

“Jesus”—Harry thumps his forehead once against the wood—“Christ.”

Louis stands and grinds his cock into Harry's arse. He pushes Harry's hand out of the way and tugs on him, quick and tight. Harry comes with Louis still rutting against him like a wolf in heat. He wonders if Louis will slip inside just like this. There’s a stupid part of him that wants to ask for it, even. Louis begins to thrust. Not fucking him but it almost feels the same. He leans over Harry’s back, resting his forehead on his shoulder. His breath quivers. His hands tighten on Harry’s hips and he comes, all across his back and bum. He groans weakly with one last nudge of his cock before they both still, aside from their hearts and lungs racing.

Harry laughs softly. “How are you feeling now?”

“So fucking relaxed,” Louis replies, breathlessly. “You work wonders.”

“I'm not even finished yet,” Harry says. He pulls his pants up, though it's disgusting with the mess on his skin. “I'm going to go draw you a bath.”

“Us,” Louis says, sinking into his desk chair.

Harry smiles. “Us.”

†

“Have you seen my phone?” Harry asks, ducking down beneath the bed. The ends of his curls drip bath water on the hardwood floor.

Louis runs a towel through his own hair, his voice muffled as he suggests, “Might’ve left it in the office.”

Harry stands. “I just need to make a quick call to Troye.” He fixes his damp hair into a bun on his way back to the office. His phone isn't on the desk, but on the floor, although before he notices that, he sees a folder tucked beneath Louis’ laptop.

And he doesn't mean to see the word ‘adoption’ in bold letters. He doesn't think Louis meant for him to see it either. It's more likely that they dislodged the papers earlier and now that he's seen the word he can't pretend he hasn't. He pushes the laptop a bit more to the side, exposing the clear document folder and the forms inside. ‘Application for Adoption’ it reads at the top. There's a pink adhesive note with ‘Due 30 March’ scrawled in Louis’ script, stuck to the front. Some of the form has even been filled out.

Harry presses both of his palms into the desk, needing the support. He stares at the papers and then at the doorway, where Louis appears in the next second, holding Belle.

“Think she might need a walk,” he says, voice growing softer towards the end of his sentence until he stops speaking altogether. His gaze drops to the desk as he steps further into the office. “What’s up?”

“I just came for my phone,” Harry says. “And I didn’t mean to see, but I did.”

Louis sets Belle down and walks right up to the desk until he can look for himself. His shoulders sink and he swears under his breath.

“We have to talk about this,” Harry says. “Because I don’t understand.”

Louis props both hands on his hips. “What is it you don’t understand?”

“You want to adopt _a child_ ,” Harry says slowly. “And that's not something you thought to tell me?”

Louis scrubs his eyelids with palms. “Last year, yeah. My plan last year was to adopt. I’ve always wanted kids and I’m not getting any younger and so it was something I’d been considering for a long time. I didn’t tell you because it’s all on hold right now. Those papers are from last year. They were due last March.”

“And what stopped you?” Harry asks. He hopes to God that it wasn’t meeting him. He can’t even fathom that. He can’t imagine being so significant that he would put Louis’ plans on hold.

“I don’t know,” Louis says. “I got scared or something. Fuck, I don’t know. I can’t say any of this to you. I can’t be honest with you because I feel like the slightest thing will scare you off.”

Possibly. “Just try me.”

Louis sighs loudly. His hands return to his hips. “I couldn’t get you out of my head for nearly a year. I told you that. I don’t understand what it is about you but I wanted you for nearly a whole year. It’d go away and then it’d come back and I wasn’t in the right place to go adopting a bloody kid when I couldn’t get my head in order. When having feelings for you-- I don't know. It gave me hope again or something. Like I might not have to do this alone after all. I could wait and try dating again. But I just kept thinking of you.”

Harry pushes a hand through his hair. “So you put adopting on hold because of me?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Louis says. “I didn’t put it on hold hoping that you’d change your mind about me. It wasn’t about you. Not completely. It was about me sorting myself out. But this is why I couldn’t tell you. I knew that’s how you’d take it. And then you’d get scared. And you’d run.”

“What’s with you thinking I’m just waiting for a chance to run?”

“You told me as much, Harry. You told me you’re afraid of caring too much. You even said that you’re a runner. Said it in those words.”

Harry feels his whole face heating up again. He can’t respond to that because it's all true. Perhaps that's for the best. It’s his big mouth that’s partially to blame here.

“I don’t want to scare you off,” Louis says. “I’m trying really hard not to. In spite of the fact that being with you makes me reckless. I don’t think everything through. I just know I want to be with you and I want you to stay. I know this is the closest I’ve ever come to loving anyone.” His hand is on the center of his chest, a few fingers just over his heart like they’re ensuring it stays in place.

But it's Harry's heart most likely to run.

“If this is too much, you have to tell me now,” Louis says. “I'm begging you to tell me now before I get any closer.”

_Selfish, selfish bastard._

Harry swears he hears Cassie say it as if she’s standing in the room, standing behind or beside him, speaking into his ear. She would be the kind to haunt him. Maybe she's been lying dormant for years but now the weight of Harry’s transgressions has brought her back.

He is selfish. He does want to run. He thinks that might be best for everyone. He’s not ready for forever because forever isn't real.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Harry says, because he's not ready to let Louis go either. “I'm not running anywhere.”

“But you want to?”

“No.”

“Be honest with me,” Louis says. “I know this scares you.”

“Does it not scare _you_?”

“Try terrifies,” Louis says. “I’m terrified.”

Harry nearly scoffs. Louis hardly seems terrified about anything.

“Then we’re on the same page,” Harry says. “If you’re not running, I’m not.” Louis looks at him, his eyes a little wide, a little misty even. Harry swallows, trying to the ease the tightness of his throat. “I want this to work too.”

Louis looks down at the papers on his desk. “If I were considering that right now, I would have told you sooner.”

“Okay,” Harry says. There's an awkward beat of silence. Harry ducks down to grab his phone and then he reaches and takes Belle’s collar. “I'll go take her for a walk.”

Louis doesn’t watch him go. He moves to the desk to straighten his papers.

Harry takes a longer walk than intended or needed. He walks and walks, attempting in vain to clear his head. Eventually, he's stood on some foreign pavement just staring at the sky or at Belle staring at him.

“I'm going back,” he tells her.

She obviously doesn't reply.

He finds Louis sitting at the kitchen table with his head tilted back and a cigarette between his lips.

Or not a cigarette.

“Is that weed?” Harry asks.

Louis lifts his head, and it’s clear he’s surprised. He hadn’t expected Harry to return at all. Harry can’t find the nerve to be offended. He unclips Belle’s leash and takes a seat at the kitchen table.

Louis smiles. “It might be.”

“Do you have any left?”

“Oh, yeah. There’s this Tupperware container in the kitchen,” Louis says. “Lots where this came from.”

Harry nods, drumming his fingers on the kitchen table. “Do you like brownies?”

“I love brownies,” Louis says with a laugh.

“I’m going to make you some brownies,” Harry says.

Louis lifts his blunt, takes a long pull before offering it to Harry. “Think that’s just what I need.”

†

They have snacks for lunch — rolls of ham, pieces of cheddar, crackers and slices of red pepper — too preoccupied with making good batch of good wholesome brownies. Jimi Hendrix plays on. Louis nods his head to the beat.

There's laughter. An abundance of it filling up the space between them. Louis is so high he ends up just sitting on the floor, his head against Harry's leg, rambling on and on about things Harry can only reply abstractly to. Harry sits beside him once they've got a hot pan of brownies between them. They don't bother cutting the whole thing into squares. ‘Fuck that’, Louis says, and so they eat straight from the pan with forks.

Harry pulls him up afterwards and insists on gardening.

He doubts that anything they plant will actually grow. The soil is too hard and Harry is too high. He doesn’t care. Watching Louis garden makes him horny. Watching Louis do most things reduces him to a teenage boy. Harry keeps touching him, his bum, or his stomach, or even just grabbing his crotch. And finally Louis drags him into the house and into his room. They take the leftover brownies with them.

“Do you believe in God?”

Louis folds his arms behind his head and exhales a big breath of air. “I don't know. Sometimes I'll pray but I never know who I’m praying to. And I never really care to know. If someone hears me and helps, then great. If not, life goes on.”

Harry licks stray chocolate from his thumb. “I don’t know what I believe, but I can’t wrap my mind around the idea that there’s just nothing. Nothing but us. That we live and die and cease to exist.”

“But what more would you want?” Louis asks. “When you’re old and grey, and you’ve lived a life that you’re proud of, maybe you don’t need any more than that.”

Harry dusts a crumb off his chest. “But what if you don’t live a life you're proud of? What if you die at eighteen?”

Louis looks at him, and then away. “I don’t know.”

“Me neither.” Harry’s mind, still swimming in the void of weed and rough sex, produces random thought after thought. He’s been spewing them ever since he orgasmed. He can’t stop talking, but at least Louis doesn’t seem to want him to. “Do you ever wonder what would happen if you were just propelled into space?” he asks. “Without a spacesuit or an oxygen tank. If you could just go, bare-arsed, from where we are now to the centre of the universe. What do you think would happen?”

“Bet your lungs would just implode,” Louis says. His engraved lighter snaps once beneath his thumb before sparking to life. The end of a cigarette glows bright between his lips and then the flame is gone. “Or like you turn into an ice lolly.”

“I asked Cassie the same thing one time and she said we’d turn into stars,” Harry says. “Like maybe we’d disintegrate and be spread through the universe. And you know, after she was gone, I wanted that, to be propelled into space. I wanted to be a star or a comet.”

“I’m happy you aren’t,” Louis says. “Can’t fuck a comet.”

Harry snorts, turning his face into the pillow. He watches Louis’ cheeks hollow as he takes a drag on his cigarette. “Do you like me because the sex is good?”

Louis looks at him. “No.” His brows crease. “Is that why you like me?”

“No,” Harry says. “Why do you like me?”

“You want me to go through every single thing I like about you?” Louis licks his top lip. “The list is long.”

Harry gets closer to him as if he doesn't feel warm enough. “Give me the highlights,” he says, touching the long arrow tattooed on Louis’ forearm.

“You're funny, weird, honest. You're still here,” Louis says. He starts to laugh. “The sex is really good. We’ve come a long way from that one-night stand.”

Harry smirks. “Aren’t you glad you broke your rule for me?”

“I guess so,” Louis says, exhaling a tunnel of smoke toward the ceiling. “Also I’ve broken that rule since you. Because of you.”

Harry props himself up on his elbows. “When was this?”

“After we talked.”

“ _When_?”

Louis sighs. “The day after you came to the office with beignets. It was Valentine’s Day and I went out that night and took the first man who flirted with me home. And then I knew I officially had a problem concerning you.”

Harry rests his head against his palm. “Should I be flattered?”

“Are you?”

“I feel bad but yes,” Harry says. “That I drove you to be impulsive.”

“I used to be impulsive all the time when I was younger.”

“Sometimes you talk like you're fifty. You're still young. You deserve to feel that way. To behave however it was you did then.”

“I slept with a lot of men, Harry. I think when I was free to do it, I went insane and started shagging left and right. First man to ever fuck me was some older bloke I met in a bar. I think being as wild as I was is the reason I was alone for so long.”

“Louis, I'm telling you, it's all about the right person. The right one will be someone you can be impulsive with. Someone you can feel young and reckless with. That's how it should be.”

Louis hums, crushing his cigarette in the ashtray beside him. “I feel that way with you.”

Harry's cheek dimples. “Mission accomplished then," he whispers.

They lie there, touching periodically, kissing at random, sharing a fresh cigarette.

“I want you to meet my mum,” Louis says quietly. “It’d mean a lot if you did. When you feel ready.” He’s not looking at him. Just staring at the ceiling.

“I’d love to meet your mum,” Harry says, because this is what trying looks like. This is moving forward in spite of the fear. That’s all he can do.

Louis looks at him, his eyes bright, skin crinkled at the corners. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I’ll even bring biscuits for her.”

“No brownies?”

Harry slaps his bare chest. “Louis.”

Louis laughs, covering his face with his hand. His ears are slightly pink. He laughs and laughs, and Harry doesn’t even know when he joins in. He just knows neither of them can stop.

“Whose guitar is this?” he asks Louis later on. It’s nearly midnight. Tomorrow morning, he’ll have to make the long drive back to Northampton and they won’t see each other for who knows how long. So Harry determines to make as much use of what time they have left. “I found it in the room where you keep your awards.”

Louis squeezes his heavy eyelids and sits up in bed. “That’s mine,” he says, words stretched by a yawn.

“When were you going to tell me you play guitar?” Harry asks. “Also this is fucking beautiful. The spruce with the maple— I love it.”

Louis smiles. “I used to play over a decade ago. I can still remember the chords, and maybe one song. But that’s about it.”

Harry shakes his head, climbing up onto the bed, sitting cross-legged. “I thought so. It was out of tune.”

“And you tuned it?”

Harry runs his fingers down the strings, and the strings answer harmoniously. “I tuned it.”

Louis lies back down, propping himself up on three pillows. “Play something for me.”

Harry looks at him, and then down at the strings. “Yeah, I don’t— I haven’t played for anyone aside from Andy in years,” he says. “Or my family on Christmas, but then that’s strictly Christmas songs.”

Louis’ brows crease. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Harry shrugs. “It has to do with Cassie. Every fucked up thing about me has to do with her.”

Louis sets his hand on Harry’s thigh, and the touch alone helps.

“I wrote all of my songs with her, and when she was gone, I just didn’t anymore. Or I couldn’t. I tried and I hated what I came up with. And then because I couldn’t make music, I started to resent playing at all. And I could only do it when Andy started. I could only play when I was teaching her.”

“You’re kind of incredible,” Louis says.

Harry snorts. “I just told you I can’t play. How does that make me incredible?”

“She’s one of the best guitarists I’ve met, especially at her age. And you taught her the way you did feeling the way you did. I think that’s incredible.”

“I think she’s just a natural.”

Louis rolls his eyes and sits up. “How can you name your daughter after a galaxy and think so little of yourself? Do you even know how galaxies are formed?” He plucks one of the guitar strings. “Clouds of space dust and gas collapse under the pressure of their own gravitational pull. Or so I read.” He smiles. “The point is they’re born out of a chaos. Out of something wild and beautiful. The difference here being that you haven’t collapsed. You’re still here.”

Their eyes meet.

But _she_ isn’t, Harry wants to say.

Rather than expose more of himself than Louis’ already seen, Harry leans forward and kisses him. “I haven’t said thank you yet for working privately with Andy, or for inviting me to come listen,” he says. “I appreciate that very much.”

“You’re welcome,” Louis says.

Harry takes a breath. “Lie back.”

Louis situates himself against the pillows again.

Harry rights the guitar in his lap. He didn’t think this one through. He never thinks anything through. In part, he just wants to stop talking about himself and his innumerable problems. But more than anything, he’s moved, by Louis’ words as always, by Louis himself. He’s so good. So much better than anyone deserves. And Harry wants to be good for him too.

So he positions this unfamiliar instrument in his hands and begins to play. He lets his eyes close, the way he does when he’s playing alone. He tries to pretend he’s alone now except that doesn’t work. Louis isn’t easily ignored. Harry strums for a while, playing a tune from memory. That's all he can do.

And then he opens his mouth and sings.

It’s not a song he can remember writing. It’s more just a combination of words and notes. He lets the strumming take him where he wants to go, and when he doesn’t know where that is and when the words don’t come, he simply hums.

He taps his fingers against the hollow body of the guitar here and there. He lets his head lull to the side, his hair swinging down and brushing the guitar. His eyes are closed but when they open, he glances fleetingly at Louis.

It’s not a song, so it doesn’t have an ending. He just chooses to stop. He stops singing, stops humming, and when he reaches a nice place, slows his fingers to a still.

“That’s all I’ve got.”

Louis starts to clap, slowly like the grin spanning his face. “Looks like you play just fine. How about an encore?”

Harry laughs, setting the guitar on the ground. He moves forward, climbing atop Louis’ body. “You’re too good to me.” He presses his wrists down into the pillows.

“No such thing,” Louis says. “I mean it. I want an encore out of you, Styles.”

“How about this instead?” Harry asks, after silencing him with a kiss. “One more time before morning…”

†

**APRIL 2018**

Kandy.

Harry first encounters the word via Twitter in a question posed by @AndromedasAngel.

The Wonderlands’ fanbase has it in their minds that Harry is one of them. And yes, he’s the closest in age to the average fan compared to the other parents. But he’s still old. He has no idea what kids get up to these days. He’s not hip to pop culture. He doesn’t have a fucking clue what “Kandy” is.

Lucky for him, Urban Dictionary does.

“One of the fans tried to solicit drugs from me today,” Harry tells Louis on the phone that night.

“ _What_?”

“I know,” Harry says. “And the girl’s bio says she’s thirteen. I’m honestly concerned.”

“What were her exact words?”

“She said ‘Do you ship Kandy?’ spelled with a ‘K’, which according to Urban Dictionary is another name for crystal meth,” Harry says, lifting his toothbrush. “She’s literally asking me if I’ll send her meth.” He sticks his toothbrush into his mouth.

Louis laughs, loud and obnoxious (and endearing).

Harry extracts the toothbrush. “You think this is funny?”

“Oh, babe,” Louis says. “Harry, Kandy is a ship name.”

Harry switches the call from speaker to handheld, squeezing the receiver between his ear and his shoulder. “A what?”

Louis laughs again. “It’s Andy and Kendra’s names combined.”

“But why?”

“It happens with every boy band or girl band. If two or more members seem...compatible together, the fans start to fantasize, I guess, about them being in a relationship. Or sometimes, it’s platonic. Like the two members just seem to be really good friends. And so they refer to that relationship using a combination of the members’ names.”

Harry spits, rinses, and then stares at himself in the mirror. “Okay, but what does shipping have to do with it?”

“You’re thinking of it in terms of post, but it’s not like that. Shipping is what you do when you want two people to be in a relationship or when you believe that they are.”

“Why would someone ask me if I want Andy and Kendra to be in a relationship?”

“I think it’s more that they’re asking you if they are,” Louis says.

“Are they?” Harry asks, his eyes widening.

“Harry, I have no clue. And if you find out they are, I’d rather you not tell me. I also wouldn’t take it seriously. It happens all the time.”

Harry climbs into bed. “Is Kendra into girls?”

“Also something I don’t know,” Louis says. “And I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

Harry smiles. “That’s fair.”

“I have something I _can_ tell you though.”

†

A coming out could boost ticket sales exponentially. That’s what one of the publicists says. Another publicist produces statistics regarding entertainers who have come out in the past and how it’s affected profit positively.

With presale for the tour beginning in four weeks, Louis says it’s only natural that the concept would be brought up now. And for Andy, being as pragmatic and ambitious as she is, it’s only natural she’d be on board.

By the time Louis tells him that night, it's already too late for Harry to object. He objects anyhow.

“Your sexuality isn't a thing you should use as promo,” he says to her, minutes after he's gotten off the phone with Louis. He had to start the conversation in a clever way, so she'd tell him about her plans without knowing Louis already had.

“My sexuality is mine to use how and when I want,” Andy says. “Wouldn't you agree with that? Or should I let people tell me how to be bisexual?”

“That's not what I mean,” Harry says. “You don't get it.”

“I completely get it. I just don't agree. It makes sense to do it this way. I'm going to come out regardless. Why do it at a time when its disadvantageous for the band? Why not do it now to attract more LGBT fans to the shows?”

Harry can't respond to any of that. It makes sense. He knows that.

“I think you're just scared of me coming out in general,” she says.

“Well, someone has to be.”

“I'm just as scared as you.”

And he believes that. When she admits that she's scared, it's usually because she's terrified. She never would otherwise. And all these years later, it still takes a great deal to visibly frighten her.

“If I'm going to expose myself to the world’s opinions about who I like, I might as well sell out some shows too.”

And so it goes.

From the moment she told Louis, he began coaching her on the ins and outs of the process, readying her for the magnitude of attention she would garner. The only thing they hadn't secured was when.Until now, apparently.

Until now, apparently.

†

Harry sits at the edge of the couch cushion, so focused on the television screen it’s as if there’s no space between him and it. He can hardly take comfort in Louis’ thigh against his own. James Corden has asked all the right questions. All that's left is for Andy to answer.

Her hands are folded together in her lap, not touching her now silver hair or pulling at the rips in her jeans. She happens to be wearing a blue dress anyhow. Harry folds his hands together too.

"I think,” Andy begins. “When it comes to whether the person is a boy or a girl, that's not really important to me. Love is love and people are people and I'm open to loving anyone regardless of race, religion, and gender, and all those things that make us different or the same.”

“Perfect,” Louis says, and Harry turns to shoot him a grin, finds him sitting forward too. He squeezes Louis’ knee, exhaling a breath he’s been holding since the girls filmed the show a week ago.

Andy goes on. “I think love is just so wild and unpredictable that it's impossible, and ludicrous, really, to assume that it's always going to be a man with a woman. My dad is gay. My mum was gay. And I’m open to being with anyone who loves me and who I can love in return.”

“Yes,” Harry says. “Fucking perfect.”

Kendra reaches over and squeezes Andy's forearm. "I agree,” she says. “I think it’s important for all young people to be open to figuring out their sexuality. And never just assuming that they're straight because society tells us that's the norm."

"Absolutely," Rose chimes in. "Be adventurous and see what happens."

James smiles. "Can we consider that your message to the rest of the world then? To your younger fans?"

"Definitely our message, yeah," Mercy says. "Just live by your heart and your mind, and no one else's."

"I think that really gives a lot of meaning to the band's name and also the title of your album,” James says, looking at the audience. “The Wonderlands sounds sort of whimsical and fun, yeah? And I know you girls have talked a bit about where the reference came from. But I also think it's become symbolic for who you are. And how you create a space for younger people to wonder about themselves. And I think that's really great what you're doing and a lot of good is probably going to come from that."

"I hope so ‘cause I'm sweating my curls right out," Andy says, fanning herself. Everyone laughs, Harry and Louis too. "Definitely one of the most terrifying things to say but so worth it. I’m proud to say I’m bisexual and I hope people watching might have the courage to do the same thing some day."

The audience claps and whistles, and Andy mouths a ‘thank you’ to them all, putting her hands together and ducking her head humbly. When it goes to commercial break, Harry finally sits back, letting his head fall against Louis’ shoulder.

His phone starts ringing and he lifts his bum, fishing it out of his back pocket.

“I don’t have long,” Andy says, when he answers. She sounds breathless. “Did you see it?”

“Of course,” Harry says. “You were so fucking brilliant. I’m so proud of you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, knowing it’ll happen before it begins. He covers his face with his hand. “I’m always so proud of you.”

Andy laughs. “Are you crying?”

“Yes,” Harry says, with a tearful pitiful laugh of his own.

Louis rests his head against Harry’s.

“This is why we named you after a galaxy, you know?” Harry says, quietly. “You’re bigger than a star. You’re more than that.”

“I love you,” Andy says. She’s not fooling anyone. He can hear the fragility of her voice and see the exact moment when her voice breaks and she covers it up with a cough. “Honestly, I could use one of your hugs right now.” She coughs.

“First thing you’re getting when I see you, and lots of kisses from me and Belle, and ice cream, and cake,” Harry says. “First thing tomorrow, Bee. Can’t wait to see you. I love you.”

He wants so badly to hug her. She must be exhausted. Now, she has to go and co-host some radio show with the girls. And all he wants is to hold her and tell her she's done well.

But until then, he has Louis, and when he hangs up, the first thing he does is curl as close to him as possible.

†

**‘Emergency lunch needed ASAP.’**

Harry rings Gemma immediately because anyone would after receiving a message like that.

“I’ll explain over lunch,” she says, sounding perfectly fine. “When are you free?”

Harry looks at Troye and Lauren, the girl he hired only three days ago. She and Andy went to primary school together and she’s worked in a flower shop before. She assured him she doesn’t need much training. He still feels guilty about leaving. “I can meet you halfway in two hours,” he says to Gemma.

“Good. I’ll text you a place,” Gemma says. “See you.”

Troye gives him a look when he says he has to run. “You used to spend all your time here and now you’re hardly around.”

“I know,” Harry says. “What would I do without you?” He looks at Lauren. “Ring me if you need anything at all. I’ll be back before you can blink.”

She and Troye make a point of blinking.

“Very funny,” Harry says. “Bye.”

Gemma texts him the address for some cafe about forty minutes away, and Harry gets there in thirty-five. He spots her at a table near the window, her chin resting in her palm. When she sees him, she waves, open-palmed.

They kiss each other's cheeks, and then Harry takes a seat, eying her carefully

“Are you safe? In good health?” he asks, his thumbs up, brows lifted.

Gemma smiles. “Both.”

“What’s the emergency then?” Harry asks.

The waiter comes by, asks if they’re ready, and they both shake their heads. Gemma says, “I have several updates.” And then she lifts her pointer finger, signalling the first. There’s a dramatic pause. “I’m pregnant.”

Harry's eyes widen.

“It was completely unintentional,” Gemma says. “Ralph and I were very careful, or so I thought. But I’m three weeks along.”

Harry covers his smiling mouth with both hands.

“Of course you would be happy about this,” Gemma says, shaking her head.

“Aren’t you?” Harry asks. “A little bit?”

“I’m getting there,” Gemma says. “I’m more excited about other things right now.”

“Like…?”

Gemma takes a breath and slides her left hand across the table, knuckles up. She taps her fingertips on the surface.

“Holy shit,” Harry says, taking her hand. He inspects the glittering diamond there on her ring finger. “Gem, this is gorgeous.”

“I know,” Gemma says with a squeal. “You know I've always been sort of weird about marriage. I wasn't expecting this at all, but as soon as he asked, something just changed. And I said yes and I'm so excited about it. Way more excited than I would have expected.”

“I’m excited for you,” Harry says. “What did mum say?”

“Oh, she flipped. She started crying. You know, she’s been waiting forever for one of us to get married.”

“And that task is best left to you,” Harry says. “You’re going to make an absolutely perfect bride.”

“Thank you,” Gemma says, squeezing his hand. “Also, I'm quitting at the school. I want to try publishing children’s books, in addition to homeschooling. And with everything changing in my life, I think now is the best time to do it.”

Harry’s mouth hangs open. The waiter comes by again and yet again they shake their heads. “I'm so overwhelmed by all this. I’m so happy and so overwhelmed. A wedding, a baby, a book! How has all this happened in the last however many weeks?”

“Well, we kept trying to plan lunch, but you've been so busy. I knew that if I told you it was an emergency, you’d rush here. Worked like a charm.”

Harry frowns. “I’m never too busy for you. I try not to be, at least.”

“I didn’t say that to make you feel guilty. Whatever it is you've got going on, I know it must be important.” She looks at him, her eyes slightly narrowed, waiting. “I’m here if you want to talk.”

Harry folds his hands in his lap. “I know.” He feels the words crawling up his throat. The waiter happens to pass by before they make it to his mouth. He lifts a hand. “Sir, I think we’re ready now.”

Gemma purses her lipsticked mouth. “Smooth.”

Harry orders a vodka tonic (and a salad). They talk about other things, about Andy’s big announcement, about the flower shop, about the Wonderlands’ upcoming tour dates.

“I think I can probably catch the show in LA with you,” Gemma says. “That'd be fun.”

“Please do,” Harry says. “I’ll beg, if necessary. Also, you promised you'd come next time.”

“I’ll let you know by next week,” Gemma says. “Are you free next weekend?”

He’s possibly meeting Louis’ mum that weekend. No concrete plans, but he wants the day open just in case. “No.”

“Not for lunch or dinner?” Gemma asks.

Harry shakes his head, focusing on his salad.

“Saturday or Sunday?”

“Nope.”

“What have you got planned?” Gemma asks, resting her chin on her fist again.

Harry meets her gaze. “Gemma.”

“Are you seeing someone?” she asks quietly. She bites her bottom lip, a smile growing. “Tell me you are, please?”

Harry puts his fork down and tugs at the collar of his shirt. “Yes, but I can’t say any more than that.”

Gemma’s brows crease. “Is he a public figure? Remember that time you nearly slept with that popular solicitor? Al Something.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “You’re not supposed to say that out loud.”

“Is it him?” Gemma asks, grinning.

Harry looks at her. He wants to tell her, and then in the next second, he feels like he has to. “Not him, no. It’s more obvious than you’d think.” He tries to communicate with his expression. He fixes her with this look. He knows she’s running through the very limited possibilities of men he might be dating that he couldn’t tell her about. He knows that eventually, her mind will centre on the most prominent. Her smile dissipates.

“Oh my God,” she says. “Not Louis.”

Harry tries for a smile.

Her eyes are so wide, he wonders if her eyeballs could just roll right out. “Since _when_?”

“See, that’s a simple question with a very complicated answer,” he replies. “Technically, we’ve been together since Christmas Eve. But the first time I… was _with_ him was over a year ago, a few days after my birthday.”

“Bloody hell.” Gemma folds her arms across her chest. “Was it that good?”

Harry huffs a laugh. “It's more than that.”

“Sure, but it must have been _very_ good,” Gemma says, studying him.

“Don’t do that,” Harry pleads. “You’re shaking your head.”

“I thought that after a year the threat of this happening had passed. I was very wrong,” Gemma says. “I’m not disappointed in you. I’m shaking my head at myself. I should have known.”

“I wasn’t too happy with myself either,” Harry says. “But things have changed.”

“How so?”

Harry reaches for his drink. “He’s good for me. And he’s under the impression that I’m good for him. We understand each other. I'm a mess but for some reason, he thinks I’m worth dating anyhow.”

“Of course you’re worth dating,” Gemma says, slapping his forearm.

Harry smiles. “Your friend, Boyd, wouldn’t agree.”

“I keep telling you his uncle actually died.”

“And yet he still hasn’t called. Over a year later,” Harry says, shaking his head, smiling.

“Enough about him,” Gemma says, waving her hand like she could bat the memory of him away. “More about Louis.”

“I don’t know what else to say. He’s just— He’s steady ground,” he says, trying to articulate something he doesn't fully understand himself. The confusion on Gemma’s face says he might not be succeeding. “I didn't know how badly I needed something safe until I had it. And now I want it all the time. We had this argument recently. And I swear, with anyone else, I would have ended things then. But I can’t with him. I can’t run from him. I know what I promised Andy but I didn’t expect this. And I want it to work.”

Slowly, Gemma smiles, propping her chin atop her fist. “You’re in love, little brother.”

Harry is quiet for long enough that Gemma’s smile grows wider, long enough that he seems to confirm without having to open his mouth. “I’m not sure I even know what that means,” he says as an afterthought and a last minute defence.

“None of us do.” Gemma lifts her fork again. “Not until it’s got a hold of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i never intended for this to surpass 100k words. i thought i could contain her but the story is a lion, not a house cat lol. it’s kind of frustrating, especially when i feel like there's still so much to say, which i guess is the trouble with writing a story that spans several years. i feel like i'm not writing enough and yet the word count begs to differ...
> 
> i'm so sorry if i don't respond to your comments. i read all of them! (and love most of them lol) and i'm so thankful you take the time to share your thoughts with me. it's so important that you do. if i don't reply, it's simply because there's a lot of you and i'm easy to overwhelm.
> 
> much love!! xx


	8. Chapter 8

That summer is madness.

Harry sees the usual spike in weddings and bridal showers. Most babies are born in June, July, and August meaning a spike in christenings too. And any event during the summer is an excuse for flowers.

But the boom in business is coupled with managing a secret relationship and trying to make time for his daughter whom he’s been admittedly negligent of. The thing with Andy is that she wants room to be an adult, but has momentary lapses of adolescence. One doesn’t negate the other, he knows that. But it confounds him. It makes him think she’s fine, until suddenly she isn’t.

One night in May, for example, she calls sounding like she’s twelve, complaining that her life is moving too quickly, that maybe it was a mistake to come out so soon. He leaves his bedroom where Louis is asleep, goes down to the flower shop, and spends an hour talking her off a ledge he never would’ve guessed she was on.

Andy doesn’t mention the call again, not even when they meet for lunch the following week, but Harry never stops thinking of it. He tries to find time to call and text more often. He even signs up for Snapchat so they can send each other pics with funny filters.

Not much else changes after April, except that Andy’s rise in popularity inadvertently leads to a rise in his own, which he responds to with wariness and anxiety. He turned down Louis’ suggestion to record with Andy for this very reason. He’s the other half of a secret relationship, and anytime he’s pictured fame in relation to himself, it’s for his daughter, or for the band he shared with Cassie. There are plenty of reasons why now, in his late thirties, he doesn’t want fans showing up at the flower shop just to meet him. Every time a stranger asks for his picture, he has a moment of disorientation. Every time he connects with the fanbase beyond Twitter, he’s thrown.

At the center of all his madness that summer is Louis, who has infiltrated every aspect of his life, who he looks for on the other side of his mattress every morning (even when he doesn’t spend the night), who he sings for more often. At the shop, Harry finds himself pausing to write things down in his journal. There are verses and choruses forming constantly in his head lately and they’re all about him.

In May, Louis takes him back to New York to celebrate their five-month anniversary, although it’s hard to believe it hasn’t been longer. They have dinner in the city this time but most of the day is given over to sleeping and a massage and a bath.

“We’re such old men,” Harry says as they stew in opaque water, their skin glowing with condensed steam.

Louis, with his head reclined on the side of the tub, replies, “Being old feels great.”

He then tugs on Harry’s ankle until Harry gets the idea and moves into his lap, water sloshing, lapping against their skin.

“I think it’s time we retire together,” Louis says, pushing Harry's damp hair over his shoulder, pressing a kiss to his neck.

Not for the first time, Harry pictures them several years into the future. Everyone hopes for a long happy life with someone else. More and more often now, for Harry, that someone appears in the form and likeness of the man beneath him.

Harry says, “Sounds perfect,” and means it.

How they find the time for a two-day trip to New York is a mystery. Every other weekend in those three months is packed, either on Harry’s schedule or Louis’. This weekend there’s a wedding. The next, a baby is born. Louis is in the US for two weeks or he’s got meetings or interviews. Harry never gets a chance to meet Louis’ mum, although she’s busy herself preparing Daisy and Phoebe for university.

He and Louis go three weeks in June without seeing each other, the last three weeks of June before the first of concerts in London.

†

**JULY 2018**

The label sends two of those ridiculously big Suburbans to collect Harry and his family. But before that, they’re all crammed into his living room, all pretending to watch the telly or carry on conversation, but their thoughts are with Andy and The Wonderlands and the Hammersmith Apollo where their first show will take place.

Harry is in the kitchen nursing a glass of wine when the driver calls to let him know he’s arrived. Harry, his parents, Gemma, Ralph, Alfie, and Niall head outside, pile in, and then they’re off. Harry twists the rings around his fingers halfway there, until his mum finally takes his hand between both of hers.

The girls have proven that they’re natural performers, that they’re one with the music, and with each other, despite the tension that's persisted since the beginning. Harry is full of hope in regards to the outcome of tonight’s show, but there’s always latent anxiety. It’s the kind he imagines Andy feels right now, wherever she is.

When they arrive, it’s at a back entrance. They’re given badges inside and led through a corridor until they arrive at a VIP lounge backstage. They’ll have a brief moment to chat with Andy before being directed to their seats. Ralph and Gemma are testing some noise-cancelling headphones on Alfie. Niall is chatting with one of the sound technicians. Harry’s parents speak softly to one another, his dad holding the bouquet of yellow roses they brought for Andy.

The other families show up and soon enough, there’s a crowd, everyone shaking hands and talking and sipping drinks.

The band isn’t the next group of people to arrive either.

It’s Louis, four of his sisters, and someone who looks alarmingly like his mum.

Harry freezes with a glass halfway to his lips. It's suddenly imperative that he stay very still, almost like he thinks she won't notice him then. And it's not that he doesn't want her to notice him. It's more that he doesn't want to be caught unaware by Louis’ mum. It’s not the first impression he imagined making.

He meets Louis’ gaze and gets a smile, the one he employs when he wants to laugh. At least one of them thinks this is funny. Harry never has much luck getting Louis back for anything. When Louis teases him, he’s always better off just ignoring him. Louis is too clever and too witty, but Harry still tries.

Louis makes his rounds while his family hangs back on the other side of the VIP lounge, ordering drinks and chatting amongst themselves. He shakes hands with everyone, introducing himself to those he hasn’t met before. When he’s standing before Harry’s mum and dad, he says, “Lovely to finally meet you.” He talks with them briefly, his charm at its maximum level. He shakes their hands as he’s leaving, Harry’s included, with an extra swipe of his thumb across his skin.

Harry’s eyes are glued to Louis’ back as he moves on and in the second that he forces himself to look away, he makes eye contact across the room with the woman who is absolutely Jay Deakin. He doesn’t know how long she’s been looking at him. He also doesn’t know how much Louis has told her and how much she’s discerned on her own, but her smile says plenty.

Harry smiles back, lifting his hand to send a discreet wave.

She wiggles her fingers in return and then folds her hands together in front of herself and looks away.

“Think the girls should be coming out shortly,” Louis tells everyone. “Have another drink, chat, make yourselves comfortable.”

Mostly everyone is seated and talking minutes later. Niall is speaking with one of Rose’s cousins, a pretty brunette who’s probably too young for him. Harry’s parents are talking with Kendra’s parents. Gemma and Lottie seem to be discussing their children, Alfie and eleven-month-old Charles. And really, there’s never been a better opportunity for Harry to approach Louis’ mum.

He throws the rest of his wine back and meanders over to the bar, where Jay is ordering a drink. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, which probably won’t help how badly they're sweating.

Jay’s smile grows when Harry appears beside her, the skin at the corners of her eyes crinkling deeply. She’s beautiful, although Harry knew that from pictures in Louis’ home or online. In person, there’s a warmth radiating from every part of her face, from her viridian eyes, the apples of her cheeks and her smiling mouth, so warm he can actually feel it.

“Suppose this confirms it then,” she says, her voice soft but her tone bold. “You know, he said he was seeing someone named Harry. Said you’d be here tonight. He even showed me your picture a few weeks ago. But I just imagined you were in the industry. I would never have thought this. You're Andy’s dad, aren’t you?”

They're lucky for the music playing overhead and the din to conceal their words, but Harry still drops his voice to a near-whisper.

“That's me.” He smiles sheepishly. “Surprise.”

“See, I’m usually weird about surprises, but this one’s not so bad,” Jay says. “The suspense has been killing me. It's really nice to _finally_ meet you.”

“Same to you,” Harry says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even know you were coming. I would've mentally prepared somehow.”

Jay’s brows arch high. “He didn’t warn you? Bit devilish sometimes, isn’t he? Actually, it's more our fault than his. We were closeby, taking care of things for the girls, for university. He didn’t even know until Fizzy gave him a ring, said she wanted to see the show, and here we are.”

“And you’re having a good time so far?”

Jay does a shrugging nodding combination. “I’d say so, yeah. I’ve got a drink. I’ve finally met the person my boy’s been going on about. I’m having a great time so far,” she says, and Harry gets another rush of warmth beneath his skin. He glances quickly across the room where Louis is speaking with a collection of people. He doesn’t meet his eye, but he knows him well enough by now: He always has at least some part of Louis’ attention, in the same way that Louis always has part of his. When he looks at Jay again, she’s still smiling.

“You seem to be taking this all quite well,” she says.

“Meeting you?” Harry asks. “No, I’m shitting bricks. Can’t you tell?”

Jay’s laughter is like Louis’, in the sense that Harry wants to hear it over and over. “I meant about the girls’ first concert,” she clarifies. “You’ve got no reason to be nervous meeting me, love. He adores you. That’s all you need for my approval.”

 _Adores_ him. Maybe he’ll tease Louis about that later. “But what if you met me and I turned out to be a complete knobhead?” Harry asks.

Jay laughs again, raising her hand to her mouth. “I’d have to sit and have a talk with him then,” she says. She slides a lock of hair away from her eyes. “Lucky for us all, I think you're lovely so far.”

Harry makes a show of looking relieved, dragging his hand across his forehead. “If only my hands would stop sweating now, I’d be great. Except I am also _very_ nervous about the concert. I'm usually nervous about everything Andy does.”

Jay takes his hand in hers, clearly unconcerned about his sweaty palms. “She’ll be great because she learned from you. That’s the secret to being confident in your children: being confident in how you raised them. And from what I've seen of her, I know you raised her well.”

If anyone had said it, he’d be chuffed. But these circumstances make it a million times more effective. “Coming from you, that means a lot. Louis— he’s incredible. I know you know that.”

Jay studies him. “Do you tell him so? I think he needs to be reminded sometimes. Everyone does.”

“I tell him as often as I can, I promise.”

“And he does the same for you?”

“All the time,” Harry says. “Because he’s incredible. And thoughtful and kind and generous.” He draws a breath. “Think I’m finished.”

Jay laughs again, which makes three times now that Harry’s made that happen. He hopes Louis is keeping count. “I’m fond of him myself,” she says, looking smug. “Have you met my girls?”

“All except your youngest,” Harry says. “Doris, I think, yeah?”

“Yes, and she and Louis are thick as thieves, so you _have_ to meet her. Come 'round for dinner soon,” Jay says. “You can meet the whole family. We’d love to have you.”

“Just say when and I’m there.”

“We’ll keep in touch,” Jay says. “I’ll be cheering for your darling tonight.”

Harry smiles. “Thank you.”

They drop a kiss on the other’s cheek and then part ways. It leaves Harry sad. He would have liked more time to talk with her. He’s surprised by how effortless it was and it looks forward to the next time he sees her, maybe in her home, surrounded by Louis’ family.

The girls finally arrive not long after, all decked out in their performance attire. They've gone the punk rock route. Andy wears ripped black shorts with fishnets underneath, her red Doc Martens, and a loose white tee. Her silver hair has been braided on both sides, leaving the rest of her curls free for her to shake around.

They're swarmed by their families. Andy is pulled into a group hug. She thanks her grandparents profusely for her flowers and hugs Harry a while longer than the rest.

They take a group picture, all the families in the background, with Louis and the girls at the center. Harry imagines it years from now, framed and mounted on each of their walls.

The girls depart immediately afterwards. Everyone else is led into the theatre and to their seats. He loses track of Louis and his family, although he hadn’t expected to sit close to them. He stands at the end of the aisle, Niall beside him, followed by Gemma and so forth. He sips his beer and chats with his family while the opening act sets up onstage. The house lights go dark, giving way to the technicolor spotlights directed at the lone performer with a backup band. She’s got a good voice and a commanding presence. When Harry looks around, the full house of concertgoers seems to be enjoying her. When Harry looks around, he also sees Louis sliding into the aisle beside him.

Harry’s smile grows too wide too quickly, until it feels like it no longer fits his face. “Hi.”

Louis looks at him, hiding a smile with a sip of his beer. “You look like I just gave you a new car.”

“Nice try. I think you’re much better than a new car.”

“But speaking of the car,” Louis says. “Have you given that more thought?”

“I told you I wouldn’t need to.” Harry sighs. “You’re not buying me a car, Louis. I don't know how I’d explain a Range Rover to Andy.”

“She’d think you were paying for it yourself,” Louis says. “And then at some point, we’d tell her the truth.”

“I don’t want another thing to lie about. But I appreciate the thought.”

Louis doesn’t respond to that. He makes a face that Harry catches a glimpse of and knows well by now. It means he’s letting it go, but only temporarily. Retreating, but never surrendering. “Whatever makes you happy,” he says.

“I’m very happy right now. To see you,” Harry says. “Why didn’t you tell me you were bringing your mum?”

“It was very spur of the moment. The girls wanted to see the show and they were nearby. I did try ringing you,” Louis says. He pauses. “She likes you, by the way. I knew she would.”

“She said so?”

“Yeah, but she didn’t have to.”

The performer hits a lovely note that several attendees scream over. Harry can hardly pay attention. He keeps his eyes on the stage and says to Louis, “I missed you.”

Still, they don't look at each other, though he pictures Louis smiling.

Louis is quiet for so long Harry thinks he didn’t hear him. He even starts to think he’s gone. Then he feels Louis’ knuckles brush his own. “Can you believe it's been half a year for us already? Feels like much longer,” Louis says. “When I go more than a few days without seeing you, I’m a mess.”

“A mess?” Harry repeats. “I doubt that.”

“Picture a bird without wings. Or a ship without a compass.”

Harry feels warmth creeping up his neck to his ears and his cheeks. “Go on.”

“I think that's enough for now,” Louis says, threading their fingers together, holding his hand for a brief indulgent moment. He squeezes and lets go. “I bet I've already made you blush.”

Harry pushes both of his hands into his pockets. “Too bad you can’t see to know for sure,” he says. “I’m staying at a hotel nearby with my family. If I text you later, will you come?”

“Bit risky, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but you don’t really care.”

Now, they look at each other, gazes locked for a minute too long. Louis looks away first. “Guess I’ll see you later then.”

Harry’s chest feels like lighter already. “I can’t wait.”

There are another four songs from the opener and a brief intermission before The Wonderlands’ set actually begins. It starts with a video, comprised of pictures of the girls from infancy until now with voiceovers and the tune of “Raise Hell” playing throughout. Andy is the last in the video. The first picture is of her and Cassie, and Harry places his hand over his heart because it actually hurts. He feels Niall squeeze his shoulder and rests his hand atop Niall’s instead. The next picture is of Harry and Andy. He’d say she was about seven. They’re in their pyjamas, both with guitars in their hands. “I took that one!” Harry hears Gemma say and his smile grows. There are pictures of Andy and her bearded dragon, of her and her grandparents, her in the studio, and in San Francisco and Paris and all over.

“Every moment in our lives, good or bad, has led us here,” Andy says in the voice over. “Right where we’re meant to be. Right where the songs are born.”

The last shot is the one they just took backstage of all the girls and their families and Louis at the centre. Nothing a skilled editor couldn’t do with a bit of time, but Harry is still amazed to see the picture there, magnified on three screens.

The instrumentals of “Raise Hell” play until the video ends. The instant the screen goes black, there’s a crash of cymbals, a strike of several guitars, and a burst of light, illuminating the stage. And everyone screams.

“Raise hell, kid. Raise hell,” they sing repeatedly, coupled with wild instrumentals. Andy approaches her mic positioned front and centre, pushing her guitar to the side of her hip. She pulls the microphone from its stand and walks to the edge of the stage.

“Hello, London!”

The crowd screams back at her, hands and signs lifted and waving.

“Are you ready to raise some hell tonight?” Andy asks, turning her mic to the crowd.

They scream louder. Harry covers his ears and looks at Louis, his eyes wide. Louis laughs and then cups his hands around his mouth and lets loose a shout of his own. He bumps his hip against Harry’s. Harry scoffs, cupping his hands around his mouth and screams too.

“I think that's a yes,” Andy says to the other girls who laugh. She hustles back to the mic stand, tucking the mic away, and grabs her guitar. “This is Second Chances.”

They all start playing at once and they play for several seconds, Andy’s eyes on her guitar. The song itself is upbeat and fast-paced, but a great deal of the excitement is a product of this venue. The crowd throws that energy at the band. They fill up the whole space with it. And the girls feed off of it, grow stronger with it, and then throw it back. Regardless of what they’ve recorded or rehearsed prior, the actual performance is organic. It’s a chain-reaction before it’s anything else.

There are several moments where Harry finds himself just standing there, awestruck and overwhelmed. When he’s been frozen for too long, Louis will laugh and nudge him, and Harry will come to, only to be suspended again.

Andy looks heaven-sent. There’s a point where she’s sunk down to the ground with her arms outstretched, letting the spotlights wash over her, set her silver hair ablaze. When she looks out on the crowd again, it’s with eyes of the baptised, of the transcendent.

Harry grew up thinking of rock stars as gods because they looked the part. But it’s more than that.

It’s something about being on the stage, he thinks. In front of a multitude of people, screaming your name, screaming your words back to you. It’s something about that experience that literally changes a person, makes them a little more than human.

He’s awed by it all. He watches her pumping her fist in the air, marching across the stage, jumping, twirling, shaking her hair out. She’s a being unleashed.

“Sing with me,” she says.

Smiling, she tells them, “You look so beautiful tonight.”

“I love you, London. I love you.”

Harry thinks ‘I love you too’ and he means it for who she is in this moment, who she was, and whoever she will be.

There’s an encore after several minutes of the crowd wailing and weeping for them to return. They rush onto the stage again and right into a Beyonce medley, featuring 'XO', 'Party', and 'Run The World'. Andy and Rose throw inflatable balls out into the audience. Kendra stands behind her drum kit and sprays the girls with silly string. At one point, Andy and Mercy are just dancing and singing.

“We should have done 'Single Ladies',” Mercy says. “I dedicated a whole summer once to learning the choreography.”

“Can we play 'Single Ladies'?” Andy asks the sound technicians. “I need to see this please.”

And it turns out Mercy does know the full choreography, although there’s only time for about thirty seconds of it.

“That was absolutely beautiful and spot on,” Kendra says. “Bey would be proud.”

“Not sure how we’re going to top that,” Rose adds.

“I’m a tough act to follow,” Mercy says. “But I think 'Raise Hell' should do it, yeah?”

The crowd screams louder than they have all night, though it’s a wonder that’s even possible. They’re all suddenly jumping, their hands held high, open-palmed as if they’re awaiting a gift.

“Sounds about right,” Andy says, laughing. She looks out on the crowd. “This one is for each and every one of you.” She spreads her hand out toward the crowd, light catching on the rings adorning her fingers. Harry looks at all the hands in the audience, reaching back, trying to touch her. In a way, it’s like they have. “No matter who you are, no matter your race, gender, or sexuality. You all have a right to be here, in this space tonight and on this earth. You have a right to demand whatever you want from life. Everything you want is yours.

“Thank you all for being here. We love you so, so much,” she says. “We’re the Wonderlands. And this is our last song. It’s called ‘Raise Hell’.”

And then they play. Andy steps back, tossing her hair away from her face. Her fingers move so seamlessly over her Les Paul, as she turns, playing first with Mercy and then with Rose. Confetti rains down from the ceiling at the third turn of the chorus, when Andy has pushed her guitar to the side and pulled the mic from its stand and gotten down off the stage altogether. There’s a barrier separating her from the fans, but she gets right up to it. She takes a selfie and right before she climbs back on stage, she accepts a pride flag from a fan.

She lifts the flag in her right hand with the mic in her left, and again Harry is rendered speechless.

“Raise hell, kid. Raise hell,” she sings. “Got no one to please but yourself.”

She looks Harry’s way, which is the first time he thinks she’s done so all night. Or maybe he’s been too dazed to notice.

Either way, when their eyes meet this time, Harry smiles, feeling for all the world like a fan himself, unable to convey how much he feels right then, how proud he is and how moved.

Her smile grows and he thinks maybe she’s heard him anyway.

†

It’s after 1 AM when Harry hears the knock on his door, and he’s standing right beside it so he answers immediately.

Louis’ gaze sweeps him from head-to-toe. “Coming on really strong,” he says. Harry is dressed in a hotel-issued bathrobe and nothing else. “But I’m not complaining.”

“Get in here,” Harry says, his voice an urgent whisper.

Louis steps inside and pulls Harry against himself right away, shutting the door with the force of their bodies. Their mouths collide too and then their hands are everywhere, sliding into each other’s hair, across their backs. Harry fists his hands into Louis’ shirt and then pulls the shirt off, pressing his face into the bare curve of his neck.

“I think three weeks is way too long,” Harry says.

Louis exhales a small breathy burst of laughter. “People go months sometimes without seeing each other.”

“Never leave me for a month,” Harry says, cupping his face. He kisses him. “Promise.”

“I promise I won’t. If I have to go anywhere for that long, I’ll take you with me,” Louis says, kissing his neck, right over his pulse. He reaches for the cotton sash Harry knotted loosely and pulls it free. The robe falls open. “You should wear one of these more often.”

“I think I will,” Harry says, untying the drawstring of Louis’ sweats. “You’re not wearing pants under these, are you?”

“Didn’t see the point.”

Harry laughs, stepping away from the door, pulling Louis by the waistband. When they reach the bed, Louis begins to push Harry’s robe off. Harry stops him.

“I’m in charge tonight.”

Louis lifts both brows, his lips curving. “That’s news to me.”

“I’m keeping you on your toes,” Harry says, giving Louis a shove onto the mattress. “Kind of.”

Louis peers at him, propping himself up on his elbows. “Okay, I’m in.”

“Good.” Harry climbs on top of him. He pushes Louis’ hands away when he instinctively lifts them to his hips. He likes that it’s instinct for Louis to touch him, but not right now. “Just let me do the work. Just let go for a bit.”

Louis releases a sigh and sets his hands on the bed. “Okay.”

“Just trust me,” Harry says.

Louis looks at him. “I do,” he says. “I trust you.”

Harry hadn’t meant for it to feel so severe or important. He’d been referring to the process of working Louis over in bed. When it comes to matters of sex, he’s very trustworthy. In the grand scheme of life, it’s debatable. Louis says ‘I trust you’ in a grand scheme way.

“You can pull my hair if you want to,” Harry says, which probably isn’t the most appropriate response. “You might need to.”

Louis laughs. “Should I be nervous?”

“No.” Harry grins, moving south. “Be excited.” He runs his hands over Louis’ sides and the ridges of his abs, feeling like a cartographer charting land. His fingertips brush freckles and blemishes he’s never seen before, a scar from a fall Louis took when he was a boy, each of his tattoos.

“You’re beautiful,” Harry says. “I don’t say that enough.” He reaches for Louis’ waistband and slowly, pulls the sweatpants over his hips and thighs, down over his knees and ankles. He lets them fall to the floor. “So beautiful.”

Louis drops his head back. “You’re doing great so far.”

Laughing, Harry says, “Good. Turn over, please.”

Louis braces himself on his elbows again. His eyelids have formed slits. “Now’s a really good time to tell me you want to fuck me.”

“That’s not where I was headed,” Harry says. “Unless that’s what you want. You’re free to make requests.”

Still scrutinizing him, Louis turns onto his stomach and rests his head on his arms. “I think I’m good,” he says, his voice muffled by his forearm. “Carry on.”

“I just assumed you weren’t into that,” Harry says. “That it wasn’t an option.”

Louis is quiet for several seconds. “I haven’t let a man fuck me in nearly ten years.”

Harry presses a kiss to Louis’ shoulder blade. “So it’s a trust thing, not a preference thing.”

“Back then, yeah. Now it’s more a preference.”

With another kiss, Harry says, “You know if you wanted that with me, I’d give it to you.”

Louis turns a little so they can make eye contact. “I know,” he says. “And I think I will at some point.”

“Good,” Harry says, leaning close to kiss him. “Now, relax.”

Louis settles down again, exhaling another heavy breath. “I’d love a massage if that’s what you’re planning.”

“I’m shit at massages, so no,” Harry says, dropping kiss after kiss down Louis’ spine. “I’m surprised you haven’t caught on yet.” He kisses Louis’ tailbone. “It’s more obvious than you think.”

Louis cranes his neck around so he can look at him. Their eyes meet again and Harry can see the light bulb radiating the moment it clicks on.

“Think I’ve got it now,” Louis confirms.

Harry sets his hands on either of Louis’ arse cheeks. “Is this okay?”

When Louis exhales, it’s a shuddery breath that Harry feels down the length of his own spine. He remarkably doesn’t experience a full-body shiver, but he’s a little overwhelmed already, before he’s even started.

“Imagine me saying no to that question,” Louis says. “It’s more than okay.”

Harry gently spreads him apart and pulls his gaze away from the back of Louis’ head. He licks his way from the base of Louis’ balls to the top of his tailbone, puckers his lips and blows a bit of warm air onto his wet skin. It’s not much yet, but Louis still makes a noise that’s softer than Harry’s heard from him before.

It's a wonder Harry waited this long to do this. Louis has the nicest arse of the two of them, firstly. But he deserves this too. He deserves to be appreciated and lavished over this way.

Harry licks him again and again, getting his chin and nose wet. He likes it messy. It’s how he knows he’s doing well. He takes all the time he wants and needs. He’s selfish when it comes down to it, and as much as this is about Louis, he’s not ashamed to take what he wants for himself.

It’s not until he pushes into Louis with the point of his tongue that the tide turns. The instant muscle breaches muscle, Louis groans, thumping his forehead on the mattress.

“Fuck,” Louis breathes, sliding his hand into Harry’s hair. It’s the only kind of control he can exercise in the moment. He tightens his fist in a bundle of curls the way he would if he were fucking Harry, and Harry lets him have that. Because he wants it too.

Harry can’t remember the last time he’s been this aggressive or dominant in bed. When he’s incoherent and there’s some man he met in a pub on top of him, he can pretend he’s being taken care of. He can trick himself into thinking those men _want_ to take care of him. Even if it’s only for a little while.

There’s no pretense with Louis. No make-believe.

He always takes proper care of Harry, in bed, outside of it. He allows Harry to let go. Harry just wants to return the favor.

He buries his face in deep, feeling submerged and overcome by Louis’ taste and the sounds he makes and the sharp, sharp tug of his fist. He forgets himself, but remembers Louis. Just Louis. Louis’ face pressed into the mattress. His toes curling up tight.

And then the aborted half-cry he makes as he comes.

Harry pulls away, feeling subdued in spite of himself. He drags the back of his hand over his smiling mouth. “I should be in charge more often.”

Louis turns over onto his back, his chest ballooning rapidly. “Get up here, Harry.”

Harry drags his tongue up the length of Louis’ cock and through the mess on his stomach, before he crawls up to meet him. Louis pushes his sweaty curls away from his face.

“You’re perfect,” he says, pressing a kiss to Harry’s mouth, his brow, his cheek. Harry rests his head against Louis’ shoulder and shuts his eyes. “Are you falling asleep?”

“I’m waiting until you’re ready to go again,” Harry says. “And then I want you to fuck me.”

Louis laughs. “I knew there was a catch.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Harry says, lifting his head. He runs his fingers over Louis’ scruffy chin. “You can just lie there and I’ll do the rest.”

“Taking good care of me?”

“Always,” Harry says, and again it’s with more feeling than he intended. There’s a wealth of unsaid things in their gazes right then, but they kiss instead. And when they’re ready, Harry mounts Louis’ cock and rides him until they’re both spent.

†

‘Survivor’s guilt, when it occurs, derives from situations where persons have been involved in a life-threatening event and lived to tell about it.’

Or so Harry read once in an article.

He can find the same definition all over the web and in the fat Cambridge dictionary on Louis’ bookshelf.

He isn't an expert or a doctor, although he loves to diagnosis himself with things when he wants sympathy. When he was a boy and Gandalf “died” in The Fellowship of the Ring, he told his mum he couldn’t go to school because his heart was atrophying. He tries the same with Louis these days, although he calls it ‘penile atrophy’ when they haven’t had sex for more than a week.

No one is ever fooled by his whims, but they take pity on him (most of the time), which is the point.

So, not an expert or a professional on much of anything. But he'd still say with certainty that intolerance leads to a sizable amount of deaths a year. In the case of 18-year-old Cassiopeia Elizabeth Noonan for example, it was intolerance, not a tree or icy conditions, that eventually did her in. The same intolerance that for some reason chose to let him live.

Hence, the survivor’s guilt.

It's not until the following week that he realizes how bad he's got it.

At midnight, he wakes with his cheek plastered to Louis’ shoulder blade and pushes himself upright. He reaches for his phone rattling on the bedside table and accepts the call without looking at who it is. Because he’s sure it’s Andy.

The sound of ‘Harry Styles?’ says it’s not.

“Am I speaking with Harry Styles?” the person asks.

Harry reaches for his wristwatch to check the time. “Yes?”

“Hello, sir. I’m Nurse Gail calling from St Francis Private Hospital. We have a relative of yours admitted here: Patrick Carl Noonan. Do you recognize that name?”

Harry pushes the blanket off his body. “Yes, I know him,” he says. “Is he alright?”

“He’s in stable condition,” she says, which notably isn’t ‘yes’, “but it’s urgent that you come see him as soon as possible. You or another relative. The Doctor will have to tell you more in person.”

Harry stands and paces to the door. He hears rustling behind him and turns, finding Louis sitting up, as alert as he can be in the middle of the night.

“I can be there today,” Harry says to the nurse. “Thank you.”

“What is it?” Louis asks after he’s hung up.

“Paddy,” Harry says, heading to the cupboard. “I need a flight to Dublin.”

†

His best memory of Paddy is vague. His mum was away one Saturday with Diane, and Paddy took the kids— Harry, Cassie, and Gemma— to the beach. He can't remember what spurned the old man's impulse to pack up the car with towels and blankets and drive toward the coast. The windows were down all the way there. Music was playing and Paddy's fingers drummed the steering wheel to the beat. At one point his hat blew off and they all scrambled to catch it before it flew outside. Harry snatched it from the air between two hands and Paddy had smiled or he'd said something — 'Thanks, H' or maybe he'd run a hand through his curls. Paddy taught them how to shell oysters that day and bought them ice cream at an outdoor market. There was nothing particularly special about it all, but it was one of the only times Harry can remember seeing the man so happy.

His worst memory of Paddy —

He can’t pick just one.

Paddy knew how to love, but he knew how to hate too. And hate well. Hate so you didn’t mistake his hatred for anything else. Those times when he was most transparent are the ones Harry has lost count of. Did he feel hated most by Paddy after he got Cassie pregnant? After Cassie was gone? After Paddy learned that Cassie had been dating a girl? After Harry outed himself too? Or after Harry took Andy and moved as far away as he could get?

Too many options to choose from.

Bottom line: They’ve never been each other’s favorite people.

Harry sits in a hospital room where the other man is asleep and realizes they’ve never been completely alone together either. Not since he was eighteen.

The doctor told him it was better to let Paddy sleep. So Harry waits, sipping a cup of burnt coffee Louis bought for him. It’s an hour and a half later when the man finally stirs, coughing, leaving a bit of blood to dot his lip. Harry grabs him a napkin and his cup of water.

Paddy groans as he settles into his pillows, his eyes drifting to Harry and then away.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says.

Harry folds his hands together. “I doubt that. I’m thinking a lot of things.”

“Did the doctor tell you?” Paddy says.

Harry nods. “Told me everything. Lung cancer for the last five years. Tumors all over.” He shakes his head. “How could you not tell me you were sick? Tell anyone? Andy, at least, deserved to know.”

“I didn’t want people making a fuss.”

“They’ll be making one soon enough. Except now it’s too late.”

Paddy looks away from him again, his bottom lip jutted out so that he looks like a shamed child. Harry didn’t come to lecture him. He doesn’t have the patience for it. He stares at Pat’s veiny hands rested atop his stomach.

“She would’ve liked to see you,” Harry says.

“If she doesn’t get the chance, tell her I’m sorry.” Paddy reclines his head on the pillow and sighs. “There’s something else I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I need a smoke first.”

Harry actually laughs. “You have to be joking.”

“I know you’ve got one on you,” Paddy says. “Come on, Harry. What’s it matter now?”

Harry shakes his head. “You can’t smoke in a bloody hospital.”

“You can. I’ve seen it.”

Harry stares at him for a long time. He pushes his hand into the breast pocket of his jacket and finds one cigarette. The one he keeps there in case of emergencies. He freezes as he pulls it out. “I don’t have a lighter.”

Paddy sighs. “Give it here anyhow.”

Harry hands him the cigarette which Paddy sticks between his parched lips. “A month ago, there was a man arrested in Birmingham,” he mumbles. “He was driving drunk and struck a child.”

Harry can’t imagine where he’s going with this, except to make him sicker than he already feels. “And killed them?” he asks reluctantly

Paddy confirms with a solemn frown. “While they were questioning him, he admitted to having run two young girls off the road several years ago. That there’d been a bar fight and he’d followed them and driven off when they struck a tree.”

Harry’s throat goes dry. He looks at Paddy, who looks at him. “Sorry, I don’t understand.”

“He got all the details right. The Fairlane. The clothes she was wearing. Two weeks ago, a judge agreed to reopen Cass’s case. So, there’ll be a trial and that bastard will spend the rest of his life in jail,” Paddy says. “I’ll be dead before I see him go, but I’m leaving you with good news.  At least I can say that.” He shuts his eyes again. “I wish Diane was here to hear it. I’ll have to tell her when I see her.”

Harry sits there in the silence of the hospital room, feeling at the center of the black hole again. Paddy falls asleep less than a minute later, the cigarette falling and hanging there on his lip. Harry removes it, tosses it into the bin. He refills the water cup and adjusts the blankets over the man’s body. He touches his hand, which seems too cold too soon. But then Harry has another thought that he's never actually touched Paddy before. So how would he know?

Louis looks cramped in the wooden hospital chair, one leg pulled up to his chest. You’d think that for a waiting room, they’d make the seating more comfortable. He looks up when he sees Harry approach, lowering his phone. “Hey.”

Harry tries for a smile. “Hi.”

Louis smiles back. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I'm good”

Louis sits upright, his hands rested calmly on his knees. “How’s Pat?”

Harry shrugs. “Tired. My parents should be here soon.”

“Alright,” Louis says, sinking back down. He pats the chair beside him. “Come get cosy with me.”

Harry doesn’t move right away. “I don’t want you to wait around here with me and miss your flight to LA or something.”

“My flight isn’t until tomorrow morning.”

“Still,” Harry says. “I bet you haven’t packed.”

“You’re right, I haven’t,” Louis says. He pats the chair again. “Come here.”

With an exasperated breath, Harry joins him and moves around until he’s somewhat comfortable. “Kind of hard to get cosy here.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about. Feels like a cloud,” Louis says. Harry laughs and settles into his side and lets his eyes close. Louis slips his arm around his shoulders. “Were you two close?”

Harry doesn’t correct Louis’ use of the past tense, because it’s nearly accurate.

“I think there was a time when he actually liked me," Harry says. "But then Cassie was gone and Diane passed about six months later. And I came out a day after the funeral. I never gave him time to grieve. I was angry so I lashed out. And then as soon as I had the chance, I took Andy and moved. And Paddy went back to Mullingar and we didn’t speak for nearly ten years. It wasn’t until Andy told me she wanted to see him that I reached out.”

“Why were you angry with him?”

Harry shakes his head. “Same reason I was angry with myself.”

Same reason he still is.

He thinks of Paddy, his eyes slipping closed, looking content. ‘Leaving you with good news,’ he’d said. Harry wants to laugh. He wants to be sick.

“Thank you for coming,” Harry says to Louis before he can ask him anything else. He sits upright. “I’m just going to run to the loo.”

“Harry—”

“I’ll be right back,” Harry says, standing. He doesn’t even know where the loo is. He walks down one corridor before turning back. He sees a sign that he must have passed along the way and arrives at the men’s room seconds later.

He can’t tell if the patina shade of his face is a trick of the fluorescent light or if he’s actually going to be sick. He spits a few times into the sink and rinses his mouth and splashes his face with water so cold his fingers feel numb.

He pictures Cassie in the Fairlane and then the Fairlane like a noose around the tree. He pictures the man speeding off, tries to envision his face. Had he felt guilty? Had he repented later that night? Had God forgiven him?

Harry throws up and blames the coffee. Never trust coffee from a vending machine. It’s immoral.

Speaking of immorality, how had that man lived with himself knowing what he’d done? Did he watch the news reports later on?

‘TEEN MOTHER KILLED IN CAR CRASH’

‘FATAL CRASH IN BIRMINGHAM, ONE DEAD, ONE CRITICALLY INJURED’

‘TRAGEDY IN BIRMINGHAM: YOUNG MOTHER LOST IN CRASH’

Harry had read all of them. 

Did the man think of Andy, nearly a year old?

Did he think of Harry, way too young to be a father on his own?

Harry lets the cold water rush over his cheek. Tendrils of his hair swirl in the basin and when he lifts his head, he wrings them out. Using the elastic around his wrist, he ties his hair into a bun, dries his hands off on his jeans.

He looks into the mirror. He’s trying to picture the man’s face, but he can’t see past himself.

He leaves the loo and finds his way back to the waiting room. There are several waiting rooms, it turns out. It takes him a while to find the right one. He spots Louis first and then his mum. When she sees him, she’s smiling, but she’s got questions. He can tell.

“You made it,” he says, stepping into her open arms.

She squeezes him and presses a kiss to his cheek. Drawing back, she inspects him closely, her hands on his shoulders. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Harry says.

She glances at Louis. “You can head home when you’re ready. We’ll see to Pat,” she says. “You both look exhausted.”

“I’m alright. I’ve gone with less sleep,” Louis says. “I’m just gonna make a quick call.”

Harry watches him go, usually because he can’t help it. In the moment it’s because he feels his mother’s gaze on him. And then they’re alone and there’s nowhere else for him to look.

“Are you seeing him?” she asks, immediately, as soon as Harry looks at her.

He’s had enough of lying lately and no energy to do it now. “Yes.”

His mum drops her hands and her shoulders, exhaling a shocked little breath of air. He almost wants to apologize. She’s very chill, his mum. When she’s visibly perturbed, that’s how he knows he’s messed up.  “Does Andy know?” she whispers, as if Andy could be hiding around a corner.

“Not yet.”

“Harry,” she begins. “Is it serious?”

Harry dries his hands on his jeans again. He glances around until he spots Louis a good distance away, peering through a window with his phone pressed to his ear.

“It feels serious,” Harry says to his mum. “He’s here.”

She studies him, her deep brown eyes darting to either of his. “You _have_ to tell Andy.”

“I’m planning to,” Harry says. He pushes his hands through his hair. “Just not right now. Especially not now with Pat. It’s not the best time.”

“That’s an excuse,” she says. “She’s a big girl. The longer you put it off, the worse it is.”

Harry huffs a laugh. “Well, it’s already been five months. Officially.”

“Oh, boy.” His mum shakes her head. “I think that’s the longest you’ve dated anyone.”

“That’s not true.”

But maybe it is.

“Well, you’ve definitely never used the word ‘serious’ about anyone,” she says. “You have me caught between feeling happy and feeling worried. And I’d much rather be completely happy. I like him. I always have. You need to tell Andy.”

Harry nods. “Glad to have your approval.”

She presses another kiss to his cheek. “I just think you deserve to be happy.”

Harry feels his stomach churn again. He hugs his mum, burying his face into her shoulder for a moment. If he stays like that long enough, he feels small. He’s reminded of a time when the surest things were a good night’s sleep, a good meal, and the scent of his mum’s perfume.

He pulls away. “I love you. See you soon.”

“I love you too,” she says. “You’re really alright?”

“I’m fine,” Harry says again. He smiles, stepping away. “Bye.”

“Bye, love.”

Louis’ phone is stuffed in his back pocket when Harry approaches him. He’s standing there, looking through the window, and then bumping his hip against Harry’s when he appears beside him.

“Ready to go?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Harry says, sliding his hands into his front pockets. “We should head back.”

Louis reaches for his phone. “Let me ring Frances. She’ll book us a flight.”

“To Birmingham,” Harry says suddenly and Louis’ gaze leaves his phone. For a second, neither of them speaks.

“Birmingham,” Louis repeats.

“Yes,” Harry says. “Could she book the flight there?”

Louis’ thumb is frozen above the phone screen. “She could, yeah,” he says, slowly. “Do you want to tell me why?”

“When we get there,” Harry says. “I’ll tell you then, if that’s alright with you. If you want to head back to London, that's fine.”

Louis doesn't answer, but he steps away and rings Frances.

“To Birmingham,” Harry hears him say.

They take a car from the hospital to Dublin Airport and board an afternoon flight to Birmingham. They rent a car when they land an hour later, a bright red Mini Cooper that seems too merry to match the purpose of their road trip, the purpose Louis still isn’t aware of. Harry climbs into the driver’s seat. Louis takes the passenger seat warily, but doesn’t ask questions.

The first time Harry and Cassie took Paddy’s car for a spin, Harry thought he would wet himself. Paddy owned a rifle he knew how to use well. He grew up hunting. Harry had seen him take down a buck while sitting calmly on the back porch. All he could think was that Paddy would come outside just as he and Cassie were peeling off in his favourite vintage ride and pump them full of bullets.

Paddy never came outside.

The last time they took the car out for a spin, Harry had to drive because Cassie was too pregnant. He remembers her yelling, ‘Go, go, go, go’, slapping her hand against the dashboard. She was bubbling over with laughter before they were even a safe distance away and Harry couldn’t help himself joining her. They peeled away from home, pretending for a moment that they were running away for good with the wind in their hair and against their backs.

That was the last time together, just the two of them.

Harry parks the little red Mini Cooper on the side of a lone road and kills the engine. He leans forward and rests his chin atop the steering wheel and points.

“That’s where it happened.”

He feels Louis’ gaze on him, but his eyes are on the tree ahead.

“Cassie was driving her step dad’s car. A 1957 Ford Fairlane in red with tailfins. It was gorgeous and we were obsessed. We used to take it out all the time without him knowing and after she had Andy, she started driving around by herself. She was going to ask him for it when she finally moved out. But there’s nothing left of it now.

“I used to just come here and stare at that tree because I needed something to blame. I thought it would help. And it never did but I came anyway. And now I’ve got someone to _actually_ blame.”

“Paddy?” Louis asks.

Harry shakes his head. He looks at him, which is a mistake because Louis looks terrifyingly helpless. He won't be able to finish his story with Louis looking that way. He stares at the tree again.

“I don’t know who he is, but he’s in jail. Paddy told me at the hospital. I think it makes him feel better. Absolves him of guilt. But it’s not that easy for me.”

“Why would you feel guilty, Harry?”

Harry’s chest sinks as he exhales.

“The summer after Andy was born, Cassie started seeing this girl named Alice. They were crazy about each other. They were in love. I could tell after meeting her just twice. After Paddy tried forcing us to get married, she broke things off with Alice and started seeing someone else, which I didn't know until after she was gone. Her new girlfriend was Riley. She got Cassie connected with the wrong people at a time when she was vulnerable and scared. She was depressed and she was lonely and I couldn’t help her because she didn't want my help and I didn’t know how and I didn’t understand. And the only person she did have was Riley, was someone who didn't actually care—

“So in January, she and Riley got pissed at a bar around here and they got into a fight with some guys there. Cassie threw things at them and then they ran, got in the car and started back home. They didn't get far before they realize they were being followed. So Cassie starts speeding. Because she's not thinking at all. Not about herself or Riley or me or Andy. She's just speeding and the road is icy and it's midnight and sometimes she needed her glasses to drive and she didn't have her glasses.”

Harry presses his palms into his eyelids. He needs another breath. This one is sucked through his teeth, sounding like wind seeping in through a crack in the window.

“You can stop,” Louis says. “That's enough.”

Harry drags his hand beneath his nose. He can't stop now that he's started. “A month ago, this man was arrested for driving drunk and hitting a child, and he confessed to having run two girls off the road almost two decades ago in Birmingham. He got all the details right. I bet the guilt’s just been eating away at him for years. And Paddy-- he expected me to be happy because finally, we have someone to blame, so we don’t have to blame ourselves. But I’m not happy at all. I don’t feel consoled. I don’t feel avenged. Because I don't blame that man any more than I blame myself and Paddy and everyone else who made her feel alone. She needed help and none of us helped her. The mother of my child. My best friend. If anyone should have helped, it was me.”

Harry’s eyes burn sharply and he doesn't try to stop it. He rests his head back, feeling the tears collecting like he's calling them forth.

“It should've been me.”

It takes Louis a half-second, it seems, to realise what he’s said, what he means. “No,” he says, his voice so sharp it startles Harry. “Don’t say that.”

Harry wishes he _hadn't_ said it. Some things are better left unspoken, no matter how long they've been swimming around in his head. He feels like he's ripped a scab away after his mum told him to stop troubling it. And now he's bleeding everywhere, and she looks at him as if to say ‘I told you so’. But even as a kid, Harry never learned from his mistakes. Still picked at scabs anyway. So, he does now.

“I’m telling you the truth. She would’ve been a star. Her and Andy both. I finished uni because my parents forced me too. I started working the shop because it was convenient. I have a guitar I hardly play anymore. I have a daughter I do nothing but lie to. And you, Louis— I don't know what I've done to deserve you.”

Self-hatred is an ugly beast but never has it reared its face like this. It makes him feel ugly full of ugly things and ugly words and he still just can't shut up.

“She would’ve been better at this. All of it. At life and raising Andy, and she’s the one who caved under pressure. When it should have been me. When I was _always_ the one who needed her. And when she needed me, I did nothing. Because I never do anything--”

“Harry,” Louis says, turning to him fully. He grasps the steering wheel with one hand, lifts the other to Harry’s face. “Baby, look at me.”

Harry can't. So Louis pulls his head to his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything because it’s clear he doesn’t know what to say. It’s enough that he holds him. Harry’s mind is unraveling but it helps to feel like Louis’ arms are keeping some part of him together. He allows himself that. He shuts his eyes and stays right where he is.

Eventually he pulls away, issuing an apology about Louis’ shirt. He reaches for the keys with shaking hands and Louis stops him.

“I’ll drive.”

“I'm fine,” Harry says.

“Harry,” Louis says. “Let me drive.”

Harry pushes the car door open, prompting Louis to do the same. He climbs into the passenger seat, rests his head against the window and doesn't lift it again for the next hour.

They return to Harry’s flat in silence, just the sound of their boots on the creaky stairs or the hardwood floors. Harry undresses and climbs into his bed, lifting the duvet for Louis to join him. Louis shucks off his jeans and gets in close. His arm crosses Harry’s waist. His knees curl into the backs of Harry’s. Wordlessly, Harry falls asleep.

When he wakes, ochre light is sliding in through the blinds and across the bed. Harry turns over, careful not to dislodge Louis’ arm. It’s unclear whether Louis was awake all this time or not, but their eyes meet immediately, fleetingly before Harry lowers his gaze.

“Good sleep?” Louis asks.

“Good enough,” Harry says.

It’s quiet for a second and tense in a way it hasn’t been with them in forever.

“I don’t need to go to LA tomorrow,” Louis says. “If you want me to stay, I will.”

Harry shakes his head. “Please don't. I’ll be fine in the morning.”

“Okay.”

More silence. Harry sighs heavily. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” he says, staring at the space between them as he speaks. “I shouldn’t have taken you there or said the things I said.”

“Harry, look at me,” Louis says, for the second time that day. “Please?”

This time, Harry forces himself to and of course, wishes he hadn’t. Louis looks at him like Harry is made of glass. Not in the sense that he pities him or thinks him fragile. He looks _through_ him. He cups the back of Harry’s neck and leans in, resting their foreheads together.

And then he says, “I love you.”

He says it as easy as exhaling.

“I didn't want to make a big deal of it, because it isn’t a big deal,” Louis says. “When someone asks you why you breathe, you don’t go into a long explanation. You breathe because it just makes sense, because it’s right, because if a day goes by and you’ve done nothing else, at least you did that. And I love you for the same reasons I breathe.”

Harry tries to pull away so he can look him in the eye and Louis doesn’t let him.

“Just let me finish or I’ll lose my nerve,” Louis says. “It's because I love you that I want to know everything about you, even the things you think will make me uncomfortable. I want to be the shoulder you cry on, even if you drool on my shirt. And the one you confess to when you feel miserable or somehow undeserving of being here. And while we’re on the topic, I'm happy you're here and alive. There aren’t enough words to explain how much. Whenever and wherever you’re involved, that’s when I’m happiest.”

Harry shuts his eyes and lets himself go. He feels abridged and condensed, like all the parts of himself he doesn't like have detached and are unimportant in this moment. Yes, he's the one riddled with guilt self-loathing, but he's also the one Louis loves in spite of those things.

He’s in danger of crying again, so he kisses Louis instead. He kisses him deeply, wrapping his arms around him, trying to get as close as possible until he feels like part of him.

Louis’ voice is breathless when they separate. “You’re a good man,” he says, with another kiss before he breaks away and ventures down Harry’s body. “And a great father.” He drags his pants off along the way. “You deserve to feel proud of yourself.”

He pushes Harry’s legs apart, situating himself there between them.

“You deserve time to heal,” he says right before he slides his mouth around Harry’s cock. He doesn't hold his hips down like he has before. He lets Harry thrust upward. He lets Harry lose control because he must know he needs to. Just like he knows what to say, what Harry needs to hear.

“You deserve to feel good,” he says with his fingers buried inside him.

“You deserve to be happy.”

And as he presses Harry’s hands into the mattress and pushes into him: “You deserve to be fucked by someone who loves you.”

†

After a shower, they get dressed — both wearing hats in an attempt at disguise — and take Belle with them for a walk.

In the morning, Louis will drive the rental car to the airport and it’ll be another week or two before they see each other again, and Harry can feel the strain of that already. He's tempted to tell Louis that he’s changed his mind and wants him to stay. But it's more than that actually. He never wants him to leave.

They seat themselves on a park bench a short walk from the flat, eating pasties they picked up along the way, and sharing a Coke with a single straw.

“When I'm back, we should get out of here,” Louis says, dusting crumbs off his jeans. “We could spend a week in Argentina.”

“You read my mind,” Harry says, tossing his empty paper bag into a nearby waste bin. He slouches on the bench so he can rest his head on Louis’ shoulder. “I’d go anywhere with you.”

He hears Louis laugh, this soft thing like a breeze. “I want you everywhere with me.”

They stay that way for a while with Belle resting at their feet and only two or three people trickling by. They take hands as they start through the park again but let go when they get to the lake, where there are significantly more people nearby, watching the ducks or chatting or just staring up at the stars.

It's a clear night. Not a cloud to be seen for miles.

Louis tilts his head back too.

And the air suddenly feels charged with something divine and nascent.

Harry looks at him. At his bright eyes directed heavenward and his freckles and a smile hidden in the corners of his mouth. And the stars hanging overhead could never rob him of breath the way this does.

Louis is the amalgamation of every boyhood dream and every drunken prayer, and there’s something to be said about the fact that Harry’s life has led him right here. There’s divinity in that. Whoever God is and whatever he looks like, Harry sees Him here -- feels Him here -- in the tangible, visceral unyielding love he has with this man.

God is in the way Louis touches him. God is Louis’ smile. Angels echo in his laugh. The most hallowed ground is everywhere they’re together.

Holy is this moment Harry accepts what he feels for him.

Louis meets his eye, his brows sinking into a worried crease, and Harry doesn't give him a chance to ask if he's alright. He thinks he's as good as he will ever be. He steps forward without thinking of all the people nearby. He sees Louis’ eyes widen in the half-second before their lips are together. Louis’ hands slip from his pockets and land on Harry’s waist, but he doesn’t stop him. When they part, he glances around but most likely, no one has noticed or cared.

“Getting reckless now?”

“Sorry,” Harry says, although he isn't really. He can't stop himself from smiling. “When you’re back, we should tell Andy.”

Louis’ gaze moves across his face. He looks so young all of a sudden, so open and eager, with a smile growing to match Harry’s. “Are you sure?”

Harry is in love. He's sure of that.

“Very sure.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: suicide attempt mentioned - (involves a secondary character and isn't graphic) [for more info prior to reading, talk to me on [tumblr](http://alienproof.tumblr.com/)]

If he thought his flat was small before, he can’t imagine how Paddy’s Dobermans will dwarf it now. He pictures Rhea and Mell on the couch that was never really big enough for him and Andy and it's suddenly terrifyingly apparent how little space there is for all of them. He can't imagine how Belle will get on with the two dogs either, though they're old and more likely than not to simply ignore her.

At least in Paddy’s four-bedroom, he's comfortable enough. There’s a strange sort of therapy available in cleaning and dwelling in a dead man’s home. He entertains himself by envisioning a big house of his own someday. He scrubs and polishes each room. He mows the lawn and hacks away at the hedges like he’s got a clue what’s doing. He puts on music and cooks and sleeps until noon in the spare room. His time there is a surprising reprieve, disregarding the two blights on his conscience.

“You like dogs, don't you?” he asks Louis on the phone that night, peering over the edge of the bathtub at them, lying on the tile floor.

Louis doesn't answer right away. He's starting to fall asleep, though it's earlier in LA than it is in Mullingar. “Love dogs,” he says eventually.

“How about three?” Harry asks.

Louis laughs. “Sounds ambitious. Why?”

“I've got Paddy’s dogs with me,” Harry says. “Indefinitely.”

“Are you trying to goad me into taking them?”

“No,” Harry says. “Just saying, I've got a kid and three dogs now.”

“You've never been more appealing.”

Harry is mostly joking when he asks, “You don't mind all my baggage then?”

“I love your baggage,” Louis replies, which sounds like ‘I love you’, baggage and all.

Harry smiles, opens his mouth, licks his lips. He should say ‘I love you too’, even if it isn't a completely accurate response. He allows the silence to stretch for a second too long and misses his chance yet again. He's missed several already.

He shifts around, sloshing water, and pushes his toes up through the surface.

“Are you in the bath?”

“I am,” Harry says, sinking down briefly to wet his face.

Rhea yawns, issuing a loud, long whine.

“With the dogs?” Louis asks, and Harry can picture his brows raised high.

“Maybe,” Harry says. “Are you jealous?”

“I might be.”

“I'd much rather you were here, if that makes you feel better.”

“I’m not convinced,” Louis says. “Seems like you're replacing me already.”

Harry runs a hand down his thigh. “I could show you.”

“Show me what?”

He parts his legs beneath the water and cups himself. “How much I miss you,” he says, reclining his head against the tile.

“With the dogs watching?”

“They’ve been following me everywhere. It can't be helped.” They look at Harry like he’s the one who’s taken Paddy from them, like he's playing a game that's gone on for too long, and maybe if they linger around Harry will put Paddy back. “I don't want to think about them. I want to think about you.”

“What about me?”

“Your mouth.”

“Want to do what you did last time?”

Harry starts to fist his cock, letting his eyes close. The last time was minutes before Louis left for LA. They were stood in the hallway. Louis on his knees. Harry's pants around his ankles. “Yeah.”

“You want to fuck my mouth?”

Harry groans. “Yeah.”

“And let me fuck you after?”

“Yes.”

“In the tub?”

“Anywhere.”

“Be specific,” Louis says like he can't catch his breath.

Harry’s toes curl. His back arches away from the tub. “In our bed.”

“ _Our_ bed?”

“Ours.”

Everything blurs after that: his hand beneath the water and Louis’ voice in his ear. The line between reality and pretend blurs, until he's not in this home with these sad dogs under sad circumstances. He's with Louis in a place that's theirs and he can feel him more tangibly than he feels the water against his skin.

†

Paddy didn't have much left in terms of family. There were some second cousins in attendance and a very elderly aunt. Harry had found an old address book at the house and rang a few of the numbers. Most were out of service. All together, combined with the men Paddy often gambled or drank with, there were about twenty-five people in attendance. It's awkward enough just by product of a scant crowd. It's made more awkward by the tension in the room.

Andy looks sombre in all black, but she doesn't cry. Harry didn't expect her to. She also hasn't made eye contact with him for the past ten minutes and whenever she does, it's an aborted glance, like she hadn't actually meant to. He might also be paranoid. But he’d like to think that after eighteen years, he knows her well enough to discern between actual tension and paranoia on his part.

She stands beside him with her red-painted lips pressed in a frown as a set of gravediggers lower the coffin into the earth. His mum slides her arm around his waist and it gives him the bright idea to wrap his arm around Andy’s shoulders. It’s not paranoia when he feels her stiffen.

“Please join me in a word of prayer,” the priest says and Harry peels his eyes away from her and bows his head. “The Bible says, our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all…”

He rang her four days ago and she never got back to him. At the time, he'd thought she was simply too busy. He hasn't seen her since the concert in London and hasn't spoken to her since the day Paddy died. She’d been shocked, had even got choked up, but there’d been no tension. He runs through all that could have happened in the past week and there’s only Paddy.

“We fix our eyes not on what is seen, but what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. Amen.”

Another verse and a hymn later, they're finished. He’s relieved when he can drop his arm, accepting a hug from an old acquaintance. When he spots Andy again, she's climbing into a car with Gemma, headed back to Paddy’s home.

The weather is pleasant, at least, and Paddy’s garden, which Harry spent the last week tending, is beautiful. They have a few tables set up and food brought in from a local caterer. Harry lets the dogs out and sneaks a call to Louis. He doesn't answer so he leaves a voicemail. He has a shot of bourbon in the kitchen before bringing out the rest of the alcohol. He nearly runs into Andy on the way through the back door but she eases past him, careful not to let their shoulders touch. Harry stares after her.

“I'll take that,” one of Paddy’s friends says, reaching for the Maker’s Mark.

Harry doesn't try to stop him.

Harry has a drink and then another and only nibbles at the food. The sun sinks lower and lower. The air cools off a bit. He plugs in the fairy lights he strung up over the week and then moseys tipsily across the lawn.

Andy is sat on the grass with Alfie and the dogs, Paddy’s old camera in her hands. She doesn't look up when he approaches them.

“Could you help me with the cake?” Harry asks.

Andy lowers the camera. “Sure,” she says and stands, dusting off her dress. She starts towards the house. Harry follows her inside. He slides the door closed behind them and turns.

“I didn't know Paddy was sick,” he says. “I know all of this was incredibly sudden. I know you probably feel blindsided. But I didn't know or else I would've told you.”

“Paddy and I talked at least once a week,” Andy says. She grabs a bottle of wine on the worktop and reads the label. “I think he would’ve told me before he told you.”

Harry deflates.

“Are we saving this for a special occasion?” Andy asks, waving the bottle.

“No,” Harry says. “Have at it.”

She pops the cork on the bottle and lifts one of the overturned glasses on the drying rack and starts pouring. Harry goes to the fridge and pulls the sheet cake out with an itch still there at the back of his neck. He turns to find her watching him already.

“You know Maura, don't you?” she asks. “One of Louis’ publicists?”

The name vaguely rings a bell. “I know _of_ her,” Harry says.

Andy sets the wine bottle down with a heavy thud like a death knell.

“I’m not supposed to know this, but according to her, Louis was seen at St Francis Hospital a week ago,” she says. “A day before Paddy died, same time you were there.”

Harry has never sobered so quickly. Not even that time he and Cassie dozed off in a steamer boat docked in the River Clyde and woke as the owner of said boat and a police officer were climbing aboard.

Andy’s gaze is more sobering than anything else. He sees it now. Can’t understand how he missed the rage at all, barely contained as it is.

Slowly, Harry sets the cake down on the worktop and then he faces her again.

“Weird, yeah?” Andy lifts her glass of wine and has a sip. She wrinkles her nose. “But then I heard that the following day, Louis was spotted in Northampton and it all suddenly made sense. Apparently everyone could see, except me. There's the way you talk, you and Louis. The way you look at him.”

“Andy—”

“I asked you a year ago, after Glasgow, right before Christmas— I asked you if there was anything going on and you told me no. And I believed you. And then in August, after the single dropped, a fan met you and Louis in the hotel cafe before it was even open, before the sun was even up—”

“That was after _you_ ran off,” Harry says.

Andy ignores him. “A month ago, at our first concert, Louis left his family to sit with you. He didn't leave your side for the rest of the night. And then just last week, Louis Tomlinson spotted in bloody Mullingar at the hospital where my grandfather was dying.” Her eyes could burn. “It's all so obvious to me now, I must have been an idiot to miss it in the first place. But you told me _no_ and I believed you.”

He reaches for her arm. “Bee—”

She takes a chilling step back. “How long have you been seeing him?”

Harry covers his face with his hands. He envisioned doing this with Louis. He envisioned it going more smoothly then. Louis has a way of disarming people that Harry doesn’t. Louis is the voice of reason. And most days, Harry can’t find his voice at all. He looks at her and some spring or gear in his heart comes loose. Because of course _now_ , this is the moment where she looks ready to cry.

“Since Christmas Eve,” he says.

Andy scoffs. “Last year? Or the one before?”

“Last year.”

“And that’s when it all started?”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut. “I don’t think now is the best time—”

“Or was it in Glasgow a year ago?” she asks. “Or was it LA? You might as well come out with all of it.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Harry says. “A year ago, something happened—”

“You slept with him.”

“Okay, yes. If you want me to be specific,” Harry says. “But that was it. For a year, I tried. I did. And it wasn’t until last Christmas—”

Andy chokes on a laugh, dragging her wrist across her cheek. “I didn’t ask you to build me a bloody rocket. I asked you not to sleep with my producer. It doesn’t help that you resisted, if you turned around and shagged him anyway.”

She tosses her wine glass into the sink and of course, a good portion of it shatters, sending shards trilling across the metal basin.

He’s standing far enough away but instinctively, his hand rises to shield himself. “Jesus—”

“Everybody knows,” Andy snaps, her voice loud enough that Harry glances nervously through the window at the guests so close by. He's out of his depth here. He's got a temper as much as the next person, but this fire and brimstone sort of rage is of Cassie’s making. And he was never good at calming her down either. “Do you realise that? Literally everyone knew except for me. They've been talking about it for weeks! On bloody Twitter, there are even people who've caught on. And I look like a bloody idiot. I stood up for you! I asked you and you _lied_ to me! I told Rose that Rachel didn’t have a fucking clue what she was talking about. Because I trusted you. You!” She pushes her hands into his chest. “I trusted _you_ more than anyone and you _lied_.”

Harry’s vision blurs around the edges, his chest burning where her palms made contact. Trusted, she says.

Andy draws a deep, trembling breath. The silence stretches on for several seconds. When she speaks again, her voice is resigned. “I just hope he doesn’t leave you like Dave or Peter or Kevin or the hundred other men you've been with.”

If he were feeling himself, he'd scoff. He hasn't been with a hundred men. Christ.

“You won’t have me around to make you feel better about yourself,” Andy says.

That's the knockout punch and she knows it. Because after she's said it, after she's completely devastated him, she leaves.

†

Before Diane’s heart failed, Harry was packing his things and Andy’s things into a tattered leather carryall, the same one he sometimes took on road trips with Cassie. He wouldn't be able to take much this time. His best jumpers, two pairs of shoes, a week’s worth of pants that he could stretch for three weeks if he wore each pair for at least three days. Packing the baby things made his hands shake so badly he needed a break.

How would he warm the formula?

He packed the baby wash but how and where would he bathe her?

He looked at Andy, lying tum-up on the centre of his bed, big bright eyes following unseen creatures in the air. She blew a spit bubble and his heart skipped a beat.

He wouldn't let her die. He’d feed her and bathe her and keep her warm. Just anywhere but here.

He kept packing, chasing the energy before it ran out. He needed it to last at least until Glasgow. He and Cassie had friends there. He could rent a room and get a job in a pub. So long as he didn't think about the logistics of working and looking after a baby, his plan was alright.

The last few days, weeks, months had begun to run together, morphing into a nightmarish kind of oblivion. The longer he stayed, the harder he found it to get out of bed. And the rare times that he did, it was to use the loo or at the beginning, to accept condolences from neighbours at his parents’ door.

Life was bleak, but beyond that, Harry was paranoid.

Nearly a month after the accident and the subsequent ongoing investigation, Riley was interviewed by a local reporter and told them proudly: ‘I loved her’. Never mind that it wasn't true. It got people talking, which perhaps is what she wanted. She was quoted in the post and cited as ‘the girlfriend of the fallen teen’ and everyone pretended not to see it. But there were also things in Cassie’s room that she hid from her parents. Books and poems. Love notes to Alice. The pride flag she’d been given in Brighton. Things they now had access to, things they must have combed through and wrinkled their brows at.

By now, everyone knew.

And if they knew about Cassie, they’d suspect about him.

Andy’s face wrinkled, the way it did right before she cried. She was either hungry or she’d just shat herself. From the smell, it was the latter. Right as Harry lifted her from the bed and she began to wail, there was a knock at the door.

“One second,” he shouted, dragging the carryall from the bed with his free hand. A spare bottle tumbled free and rolled across the floor. “Fuck.”

The door opened and his mum barrelled in. She could only listen to Andy cry for so long before coming to the rescue. “She needs changing,” she said, headed to his wardrobe.

“I know. I’ve got it,” Harry said. “Really.”

“Where are all the nappies?”

“Mum, I’ve got it,” Harry said again. “I’ll change her.”

His mum turned and her gaze landed on his socked feet, or at the carryall just behind them, tumbling over with things, nappies included. Her shoulders fell.

“Going on a trip?” she asked.

He'd known that saying goodbye to her would be the thing to break him, which was why he'd planned to go without doing so. He'd leave a note for her, of course. But looking at her, knowing he wouldn't be back for a long time, that would ruin him. And it did.

His face wrinkled, similar to Andy’s, who was still writhing in his arms. His mum stepped forward and took her, rocked her against her chest until she settled down. She reached for the carryall at his feet and returned it to the bed.

“Shouldn't we at least talk about it first?” she asked when Andy was clean and dozing in her arms already.

Which was how and when and why Harry came out to his mum.

She left his room shocked and there was never a chance to smooth things over. Because the following day, Diane’s heart, which had given her trouble for years, finally called it quits in the car park at Waitrose. It was all those questions she couldn’t find answers to. Why would her otherwise happy girl throw her life away? What was she hiding? She must have known and it must have killed her.

Harry couldn’t keep still as Father Quinlan opened the ceremony admonishing Diane as ‘a loving and attentive mother’. (He missed the part where she tried to force her daughter to get married, but that was neither here nor there.) Harry kept thinking about the carryall waiting beneath his bed and glancing at Andy in his mother’s arms, wanting to snatch her free and make a run for it.

All thoughts were distractions from the one prevailing notion about the man standing across from him and when Harry lifted his gaze, he was met with Paddy’s slightly narrowed and markedly suspicious eyes.

“I have some of Pea’s things I think you'd want,” Paddy told Harry afterwards with a hand on his shoulder. “Come by tomorrow and get them.”

And so tomorrow came and Harry went.

Anyone who knew Paddy would say he'd had it coming. But to Harry, it was always wrong to attack someone at their weakest. And Paddy was weak and broken and full of questions without answers.

There was a box waiting for him on the couch when Harry stepped inside. Full to the brim with all of Cassie’s secret things — the flag, the notes, the pictures.

“Do you want to try explaining this to me?”

A fuse blew in Harry's head. He set the pram down at his feet and picked up a Polaroid of Cassie and Alice. Their hands were linked. Their smiles were private. What was there to explain about that?

“You should be just as confused as I am,” Paddy said.

Harry reached for her leather-bound journal with a thousand unsung songs hidden in its pages. Songs about love and longing. What was there to be confused about?

“But maybe you already knew—”

“Knew what?” Harry asked.

Paddy propped his hands on his hips. “You tell me.”

“But you know already,” Harry said. “Don't you?”

He got no response, which was worse.

“You can't even say it. It would kill you to even try,” Harry said. “You wanted me to come here, why? To confirm something you already know.” He lifted the flag from the box, its colours glaring and bright. “You know what this means.” He lifted the picture of Alice with flowers in her hair. “She loved this girl, but you knew that. It's obvious. There's a bloody love poem on the back of this picture. You've seen a love poem before, haven't you?

“You want me to spell it out? Fine. She was never attracted to a single boy her whole life, not even me. We got high one night and Andy happened. She loved me, just not in the way you thought she did. She loved Andy too and she was a good mum but not good enough for you. And I know she loved you even though you're hateful and angry and you made her miserable.”

Harry lifted the pram.

“Your daughter was a lesbian. The boy you tried to force her to marry is gay. And you're alone because you didn't see it sooner.”

He fled Cassie's childhood home for the last time. Paddy sold it within a year and moved back to Ireland. He took the box of secret things with him. In the fall, Harry returned to school. Time moved on and sometimes Harry could trick himself into thinking he had too.

But there's a sickly shade of karma coloured over his life now. He's caught in a redemption arc that never ends. No matter how much he cries and rages and suffers, it's not enough to account for all the pain he's caused.

†

He sends Louis a terse ‘We need to talk. Andy knows.’ And he shouldn't be surprised when Louis cuts his trip short and arrives the next morning. But he is, startled awake by the sound of his front door shutting and the dogs — all three of them — barking.

Louis enters his bedroom, dropping his carryall on the floor. His hair is a complete mess, but he’s still unbearably attractive. Under different circumstances, Harry would pull him into bed by his belt loops.

Louis looks at the dogs and then at him, “They’re lovely.”

Harry sits upright, his fingers pressed to his forehead like he can physically push the hangover away. His lips twitch. “Thanks.”

Louis looks at the bedside cabinet and the two empty bottles of wine there, then again at Harry.

“You're panicking,” Louis says.

“Is it obvious?”

Harry reaches for his phone, unlocks it, tosses it to the end of the bed. Louis takes it, gives the screen a quick scan, returns the phone to the bed.

“An article in the Daily Mail hardly means anything,” he says. “No one takes them seriously.”

He makes a valid point, but the Daily Mail also framed their relationship as a ‘bromance’ and everyone knows that loudly declaring ‘no homo’ tends to have the opposite effect. The comments were proof of that. There were pictures too of Harry staring embarrassingly — longingly — in Louis’ direction.

Harry ambles out of bed. “It's all over Twitter.”

“People thinking we’re together isn't proof we’re together. It’ll blow over.”

Harry heads to the kitchen with Louis strolling after him. “With the band too? Because they all know. Your publicist told them.”

“Maura told someone who told Rachel who told Rose.” Which doesn’t make a difference and they both know it. “We’ll talk to the girls tomorrow.”

Harry drinks half a glass of water from the tap. “And say what?”

“Everything.”

He sets the glass down and massages his head again. “Did you know we were seen? In Mullingar. And here.” When there's no immediate answer, Harry turns to him. “Louis.”

“Paddy had just died,” Louis says. “I had it under control.”

Harry leans into the counter like he can’t support his weight. “You’re still in the closet. Now there are people who know, people speculating.”

“People have speculated about me being gay for years. And when they aren't assuming you’re gay, they’re assuming you’re straight. We’re all making assumptions about each other all the time,” Louis says with a shrug. “It is what it is.”

“It was still irresponsible of me.”

“Stop looking for another thing to blame yourself for.”

“What if I outed you?” Harry asks.

“You didn’t.” Louis leans against the counter beside him. They don’t touch, but it helps that he’s close. “And it wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

Harry tries to gauge his expression but can’t. He waits.

“There were pictures,” Louis says. “From the park, when you kissed me. They’re grainy, but you can tell it’s us if you compare them to clearer pictures.”

Harry lifts his brows. “Can you get rid of them?”

“I could, but just hear me out. I told you that when I met the right person, I’d come out. It’s been the only thing stopping me, but it isn’t anymore. We could let the article run with the pictures and all. It’d be crazy at first, but then that’d be it.” Louis turns to him and there’s something wild about his eyes, something that scares Harry and thrills him at the same time. “I like people talking about us together. I’m relieved that even a few people know. But I want everyone to know.”

Harry is wide-eyed, speechless.

“Say something,” Louis says.

Harry’s heart soars at the prospect. He forgets Andy again. He gets trapped as usual in Louis’ gaze and the sureness of his words. Louis says everything like he would swear it on oath. “Are you sure?” Harry asks.

“Only if you did it with me.” He sets his hand atop Harry’s and threads their fingers together. “Will you?”

Harry doesn't think. He nods.

†

Andy’s got a baseball cap on, pulled low so that even if she cared to look at him, Harry could hardly tell. She enters the conference room after the rest and takes a seat at the opposite end of the table. He can always count on her to be tactfully late, to be tactfully anything. It’s Harry’s fate to feel consistently outsmarted by his own child.

He looks at her and no one else. He feels Rachel’s eyes on him and pictures her smiling. This is the moment she's been waiting for. He can only imagine the verbal lashing she’s prepared for them all. Beside her is Rose, then Mercy and her parents, Kendra and her dad.

The last time they were sat like this was over two years ago under happier, albeit equally stressful, circumstances.

Minutes go by in silence. Every now and then there’s the soft thud of a glass of water returning to the table or a distant phone ringing beyond the door. At five past ten, Louis enters with his two lawyers and Alberto. He's dressed down, wearing a baseball cap himself, faded jeans, and a black tee. He looks almost boyish with all his tattoos and a tentative smile he sends Harry.

He takes a seat at the head of the table while an assistant turns his teacup and fills it.

“Good morning,” he says, looking down the length of the table. He clears his throat. “Thanks for making the trip here. We don't have much to discuss, but I’d like to answer any questions you have and set some things straight. It’d be great if you held those questions until afterwards.

“Some mistakes have been made over the past year, but my relationship with Harry isn’t one of them. You might disagree but it’s also not something I felt everyone at the table needed to know about. When things were first getting started with the band, the last thing we wanted was to draw unnecessary attention to ourselves or cause more tension between you girls. Everyone at the table was in the dark about me and Harry’s relationship, including Andy, and we’re both sorry to her for that.”

“Just to her?” Rachel asks.

After a beat of silence and a breath, Louis looks at her.

“I think all of us deserved to know that Andy had an unfair advantage from the start,” Rachel says. “Andy has the majority of singing parts on the album, by far. She’s featured most often in the music videos. And of course, there’s the private studio time you’ve had with her, working on her solo music. Don’t you think we should have known about that? And that we _all_ deserve an apology from you _and_ from Harry?”

She meets Harry’s gaze and he doesn’t look away.

“She’s the lead singer,” Harry says. “Of course she has the majority of singing parts.”

“Which you’re very smug about, aren’t you?” Rachel crosses her arms over her chest. “The other girls sound just as good, believe me.”

“The other girls aren’t the lead singer.”

“That isn’t the point,” Rachel says, jabbing her finger into the table. “The point is that all of the girls are just as talented as your daughter and they don’t get nearly as much of the spotlight. And now we all know why—”

“Are you finished?” Louis asks.

“I’m just getting started.”

“I’d reconsider that,” Louis says. “You can either settle down or you can leave.”

Rachel’s pink lipsticked mouth twists and she goes quiet, although Harry can see that won’t last long.

Louis lets another second pass, has a sip of his tea and then continues.

“I’m sorry if anyone feels at all slighted or deceived.” He draws a breath. “The truth is that I’m a gay man who’s been in the closet for over twenty years and that doesn’t leave me much choice in regards to how public my relationships are. I’ve also never had any desire to be too public in the first place. Until now.”

Harry sees Andy turn her head. He wrings his sweaty fingers together in his lap, then dries his palms against his thighs.

“On Tuesday, there’ll be an article in The Sun, confirming the rumours about me and Harry and that'll be the end of it. I don't plan to do any interviews right now. We don't want to attract any more attention than this has got already. Especially not until things settle down around here.”

“And how do you imagine them settling down?” Rachel chimes in again. Harry catches Rose squeezing her sister’s forearm, but Rachel pulls her arm away. “No, I want to know. How do you two see this resolving itself? You think people are going to accept your love story without there being repercussions on the band? First, you’ve got Andy coming out and now you. It’s going to be clear to anyone exactly whose show this is. The rest of us are just the supporting act.”

“No, you’re not a part of the act _at all_ ,” Louis says, sitting forward. “You seem to keep forgetting that. Rose is eighteen and financially independent. Don’t make yourself more important to her business than you actually are.”

Harry can see his neck turning red, can hear his accent turning harsh and sharpening each of his words, and he’d love to reach out and curl his hand over Louis’ but it seems inappropriate now. He sits quietly, both hands in his lap, while Louis carries on.

“The implication that Andy had an unfair advantage over your sister or any of the girls is ridiculous. It’s a delusion you made up to whisper in your sister’s ear and I’ve had enough of it.” He looks at the girls. “I said from the beginning, I would make you all successful and you are, each one of you, and every decision I’ve made has been for the good of The Wonderlands as a whole. You’re all incredibly talented and I see that each day we work together. To ignore your individual talents, to not allow them to shine equally, isn’t how I do things.”

“With respect, Louis—”

When Kendra speaks, Andy lifts her head, finally.

“I don’t think that’s how everyone will see it,” Kendra says. “Once your article is published, everyone is going to milk this for as much drama as they can. And the obvious route to go down is that Andy had an unfair advantage.”

“But I didn’t,” Andy says.

“No one’s going to buy that,” Rose cuts in. “Whether you’re telling the truth or not.”

“She didn’t know,” Harry says. “Louis just said, Andy didn’t know.”

Rachel sits back in her seat, murmuring, “That’s unlikely.”

“Aren’t you tired?” Harry asks her.

“We will _all_ be tired, Mr Styles, when the papers are full of articles about your love affair, and about the wannabe empire you and Mr Tomlinson think you’re building. Come Tuesday, you and I both will be sick of seeing your name across the internet. But maybe then your little girl will realise exactly how hard her daddy worked to get her where she is—”

“Get her out of here.”

The order comes from Louis. Alberto steps forward immediately, but Rachel is on her feet before he can touch her. “No need to kick me out again, Mr Tomlinson.” She grabs her handbag. “We’re both leaving.”

Rose stares after her sister for only a second before pushing her chair back.

Louis has his forehead in his palm when he speaks. “Rose, you don’t have to go anywhere if you don’t want to.”

After a pause, she stands and leaves anyway, her cheeks flushed red. Harry looks at Andy in the silence that follows. She’s looking at him too, then shaking her head. She stands and leaves as well, and Harry is after her without excusing himself or looking in Louis’ direction.

She races towards the lifts and steps inside, immediately jabbing the button to close the doors. But Harry slips between them.

“Just leave me alone,” Andy says, her voice marred by a sob.

“I can’t do that,” Harry says. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Bee. I know you’re angry with me, but I never meant for it to be this way. Just tell me how I can fix it and I will.”

Andy turns to him. “You can start by not releasing that article, by not coming out with him, and drawing more attention to yourselves than you have already. If you do this, Dad, it’s over for me.”

“That’s not true. It would blow over,” Harry says. “I told him I’d do this with him. I want to.”

“But what about _me_?”

“Don’t do that. Don’t make me choose.”

The lift doors open and Andy steps out. “Just did.”

†

Frances lets him into Louis’ office where Harry waits out the rest of the meeting. He can’t go back into the conference room. Call him cowardly, but he’s had enough. Louis is only a few minutes behind him. When he steps inside, he spots Harry on his feet by the coffee table and walks to his desk.

“That was terrible,” he says, as he pulls out a box of cigarettes and his lighter. He lights up quickly and has a long drag that Harry envies.

“Are you alright?” Harry asks.

“I'm fine.” Louis pushes his hand through his hair. “Shit happens. I have to keep reminding myself. Shit happens and we deal with it and then we keep moving.”

Harry drifts closer. “Wiser words were never spoken.”

Louis cracks a smile, which lures Harry even closer. Harry takes the cigarette from him and sets it down, pressing a kiss to his mouth in its place.

“You did well,” he says.

“As long as you think so,” Louis murmurs, his eyes downcast.

Harry cups his face in his hands. “I do.”

“It’ll blow over,” Louis says. “After the article, after a few weeks, they’ll forget.”

Harry drops his hands and takes a step towards the window behind Louis’ desk. “Maybe.”

“It’s guaranteed,” Louis says, lifting his cigarette. He taps the charred remains into the dish. “The public is fickle. A thing only holds their attention for so long.”

“And the girls? Do you think it’ll blow over with them?”

“Eventually,” Louis says.

Harry watches him. His silence forces Louis to turn and meet his gaze, and there’s a question there. Harry draws a breath. “I think you should buy the pictures and we should hold off on the article.”

Louis’ lashes lower and he turns back to the desk. “Why?” he asks, crushing what’s left of his cigarette.

“I think it’s not the best time.”

“But why?” Louis asks again, turning to face him again. He leans into his desk. “What changed?”

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, digging his nails into his biceps. “Andy feels that things won’t smooth over with the band and based on what just happened, she might have a point.”

“There are always scandals in a band, Harry. And they always blow over. They work themselves out over time. Andy might feel this way now but in time, she’d see.”

“She won’t buy that, and I can’t risk her not speaking to me.”

Louis stares at him. “You already risked that when we started dating.”

“Okay, that’s fair,” Harry says. “But I still think we should wait. I want to do this for you, but not now.”

“For me? Or for us? Because I would think you’d want this as badly as I do.”

“I do! That’s what I’m trying to say! I want this with you, but not now. Sometime in the future. When things have settled down, sure. But now with the band at risk—”

“The band will be _fine_.”

“I don’t know that!”

“But I’m telling you as much! Trust me. Trust what I’m bloody saying to you.”

“It’s not that simple—”

“When is ‘sometime in the future’, Harry?” Louis cuts him off. “How long are you asking me to wait? Because I’m almost forty.”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Harry says with his head in his hands. “I don’t know. But why the rush now? Since when are you in such a hurry to come out?”

“Since you!” Louis _shouts_ , and Harry’s eyes widen. “It's you! It's _always_ been you. How much clearer do I have to make it? How many more ways should I tell you I love you before you fucking get it? I’m here, putting everything on the line for _you_. Because I’m fucking mad for you. Because you’re my first thought in the morning and my last at night, and I want the world with you, for you. I don’t want to be with you and be in the closet. I want to be with you and I want the world to know. I read that fucking article in the Daily Mail and my head nearly split open seeing our names together, seeing _us_ together. How can you not want the same thing? How can you not love me half as much as I love you?”

Harry tries to speak, but it feels as though someone has punched a hole through both lungs.

“Jesus Christ. You can’t even say it,” Louis says, with his hand on his heart.

“Louis—”

“Don’t say it now,” Louis says with a shake of his head. “I’m not sure you’d mean it.”

†

Until now, Harry realises he’s never truly broken up with anyone. He’s had relationships come and go, but never the kind of break up that people write a hundred songs about. Never the kind for which the term ‘break up’ doesn’t fully apply, not when you still feel inexorably linked to that person.

It’s saying a lot that Harry feels the way he does when Louis hasn’t actually broken up with him. Not yet anyhow. But his fate is becoming clearer and clearer with each phone call Louis doesn’t answer and each voicemail Harry leaves.

The first night Harry wakes following the meeting, it’s 1:00 AM and he can’t get back to sleep. He shuffles out to the couch and watches late night infomercials over a bowl of cereal and has a bit of a cry until Belle climbs into his lap and licks his face, hoping that’ll fix him.

He resists texting Louis and stops texting Andy and decides maybe it’s best that he not speak to anyone at all. But on Friday, his resolve breaks and he gets desperate.

“Mr Tomlinson’s office,” he hears on the second ring.

“Hi, Frances. It’s Harry.” He cracks his knuckle against his thigh. “Could I speak to Louis?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Harry. Louis won’t be in the office for the next few weeks,” she says. “He’s headed to Argentina tomorrow.”

Harry feels like he might fall over and presses a hand against the counter.

“He’s reachable on his mobile if it’s urgent,” Frances says. “If you’d like I could get a message to him for you.”

Harry obviously doesn’t tell her that he has Louis’ mobile number memorised, or that he hasn’t slept a full night without Louis for months, or that the thought of never speaking to him again hurts in ways there are no words to describe. He says, ‘No, thank you’ and ‘goodbye’ because he’s left enough messages and if Louis is bound to Argentina without telling him, one more probably won’t make a difference.

†

He leaves the flat that evening only because he’s running out of groceries and he may be starving himself of human interaction, but that’s where the malnutrition ends. He plans to feast on oven-ready pizzas and carrot cake and those Cadbury milk chocolate rolls he used to pack Andy for lunch. He’s in Tesco, on his way to buy wine, when he hears someone call to him.

He’s not in the mood to talk, or even in a proper physical state. He needs a shower and his eyelids are puffy. He wonders if he pulls his shades down and focuses intently on the fresh produce, they’ll leave him alone. He’s not the only Harry in Northampton and maybe, hopefully, he isn’t the one this person is looking for. He lets another second pass before he turns around.

He meets eyes immediately with a woman standing five feet away and his brows crease. The realisation when it comes leaves him momentarily speechless. And then: “Alice?”

Her hair is much shorter now, still black but cut into a trendy bob. She has new glasses, of course — black-framed and sleek. The ones Harry remembers were red and ridiculously large. She wears a long cardigan and a green silk scarf and a growing smile.

She steps forward and Harry instinctively does the same, opening his arms. They hug each other like no time has passed at all, but it’s been over ten years.

“Harry fucking Styles,” she says once they separate. “I thought I'd never see you again.”

“It’s been a really long time,” Harry says. “You look great. Different.”

She wrinkles her nose. “You didn’t think I looked great back then?”

“I think we all looked a bit odd back then,” Harry says. “Just saying.” Not Cassie though. She made the dorkiness and awkwardness work in her favour somehow.

“I’ll give you that,” Alice says. “I kept meaning to message you on Twitter. I started following you but I imagine you wouldn't notice with your million followers.”

Harry grimaces. “I've kind of fled Twitter in the last month or so, actually.”

“I don’t blame you,” she says. “Are you in a rush?”

“No. I’ve got time,” he says. “There’s a cafe across the street.”

“Perfect. Let’s go.”

For a while, they talk about politics and how much things have changed in England and about Alice’s years in the US. It takes some time before Harry says anything about himself and then it’s only because ‘Raise Hell’ comes on overhead.

“I love this one,” Alice says, smiling.

Harry tries for a smile as well. “It's a good one.”

She looks at him, her brows slightly arched. “So what’s up with you? With Andy? Your kid is a superstar and you’re not even gushing about it.”

“I’ve been gushing about it for months,” Harry says, taking a long sip of his iced coffee. “I feel like I’m all gushed out.”

“Sure.” Alice hooks her elbow over the back of the chair, giving the appearance that she's very mellow and relaxed, as opposed to gearing up for an interrogation. “Are you seeing anyone?”

“I’m not actually sure,” Harry says. “I might've ruined it.”

“With Louis?” Alice asks.

Harry looks at her and she smiles like a cat.

“I read the Daily Mail every morning before work,” Alice says. “Even when I was abroad. I’m all about celebrity gossip. My favourites are the articles that say one thing and mean another, or the ones that are blatantly untrue. Everyone knows bromance means romance.”

Harry laughs. “You have a point.”

“Louis Tomlinson is also exactly your type if I remember correctly,” Alice says. “Can’t see you being his friend for long.”

Harry is suddenly reminded that one of many reasons Alice and Cassie worked so well together was their mutual intolerance of bullshit. Alice was quieter and more reserved, but just as ruthless with the scope of her observations or opinions. There's really no point in putting up a front or deflecting now when Alice, to some degree, already knows so much.

“So, what happened?” she asks. “Or better question: How did Andy take it when you told her?”

“Well, I didn’t tell her. She found out on her own. And she’s not speaking to me,” Harry says.

Alice mouths an ‘ah’ like the lightbulb has gone off. “Explains why you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“Not doing much sleeping, no.”

“She's just being dramatic,” Alice says, rolling her eyes. “Like you always were, actually. Cassie told me so. Good kids always come back to their parents. Even parents who’ve wronged them in some way.”

“That could be in five or ten years. After she's married and has children. I've seen that happen on Jeremy Kyle.”

“That won't happen,” Alice says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I give her another five _days_ tops. We could bet on it, even.”

“I’m glad one of us is confident,” Harry says.

Alice gives him a sympathetic smile. “Where did things go wrong with Louis?”

“It’s where they didn’t go wrong. It’s what I should have done and didn’t do. He’s always been patient with me and his patience ran out,” Harry says. “I think it’s better this way, though. I’m most likely doomed. I feel like Sandra Bullock in Practical Magic, where she falls in love and everything is great. But there’s this curse, this force that’s completely outside of her control, and she loses the love of her life.”

“Why would you think that?”

Harry tries for another sip of his coffee but the cup is empty. He sets it down. “I was going to tell Andy. I was so ready to do it. Me and Louis, we were going to tell her together. It's absolutely my fault for putting it off for so long, I know that. But I was _this_ close,” he says, demonstrating with his thumb and pointer finger. “An extra day or two would’ve made all the difference. It just feels like no matter what, it's never enough. Nothing ever works out for me in a convenient way.”

“That's life, innit?” Alice asks. “Nothing ever works conveniently for anyone. Some of us are dealt more misfortune than others, but it's still a fair dealing. We all have to adjust to whatever cards we get.”

“Not as easy as it sounds,” Harry says, his annoyance flaring.

“You’re right,” Alice says, her tone softer, kinder. “But you've done incredibly well so far. You're a single parent who’s raised an incredible kid.”

“You sound like my mum,” Harry says with a small smile. “Andy is the one good thing I’ve had any part in, but I haven’t done as much as I get credit for. She’s talented and she works hard. That’s all there is to it.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Look where it all got me anyhow,” Harry says. “She’s not speaking to me. I broke her producer’s heart. I can’t stop making a mess of things. I've spent years trying to redeem myself and I just can’t.”

The cool, measured expression Alice wore since they sat down falters. “What do you mean?”

“I think you probably know,” Harry says. “It’s been over ten years but I still sometimes think about what I could have done differently.”

The air between them thickens and Harry thinks he’s about to ruin this too, isn’t he? How nice it was to reunite with an old friend, but it’s over now.

“Can I tell you something?” Alice asks quietly.

“Anything,” Harry says, maybe too eagerly.

Alice gives a little upward push to the bridge of her glasses. “Before the accident, I was so angry with her. There were times I even felt I hated her. She broke up with me after I’d poured my heart out to her and made all these plans for our future.”

Alice wraps her hand around her tea as if she’s going to lift it and have a sip, but then she just leaves her hand there, gives herself something to hold onto. “And then she was gone and all the reasons I was angry seemed silly. And I realised I was partly to blame. I'd put pressure on her to leave home. I had some money at the time, obviously not enough to raise a child but I was stupid and naive. And I wasn't thinking of you like she was. I wanted her to be happy and so I tried forcing her to be happy. I cornered her and maybe if I hadn't done that, she’d be here. I don't know. I spent a lot of time thinking about it. I still think about it too.”

“It wasn't your fault,” Harry says, for lack of something better.

“I mostly believe that now, but afterwards, I felt so guilty. I tried to kill myself actually.” She laughs, seeing whatever horrified look has descended on Harry’s face. “Not in an obvious way. I stopped eating and sleeping and then ended up in hospital where they shoved a tube down my throat and _forced_ me to live.

“Anyway, the very first night I was there, I swear to you, I had this dream — or maybe I was awake, I don’t know — but she was right there in front of me, right there in my hospital room, beautiful as ever. And she looked so unhappy with me. And I'm not saying this because I think she was _actually_ there. Maybe she was, but I've never believed in any of that. I think I saw her then because deep down I knew that that wasn't what she wanted for me. I just needed that moment to come to my senses, to remember the person I fell in love with. How selfless she was. How loving. I think it’s easy to blame yourself if you let yourself forget her.”

“I would never forget her,” Harry says immediately.

“No, but maybe you’ve forgotten who she was. Not someone who would want you to suffer. Not someone who’d want you to be unhappy. I don’t know anything about God, Harry, but I know her. And the last thing she’d want is for you to keep punishing yourself or feeling guilty because it’s not your fault, any more than it’s mine or her parents’. I think deep down, you know that. Because you know her too. And she was good and honest and kind and she loved you so much. She talked about you all the time. Thought the absolute world of you. And she was so confident in the kind of dad you’d be. She never doubted you. Never once.”

Alice pushes the stack of napkins she grabbed across the table towards him before the first of Harry’s tears falls. He takes a few and swipes at his cheek.

“There’s redemption in pain,” Alice says. “And I think we’ve suffered enough.”

With that, she has a sip of her tea and gives him a moment to himself, a moment to ponder. It feels awful to admit, but maybe he had forgotten. He did. Ten plus years and a lot of repressed grief would do that to a person. But it feels euphoric to be reminded. It feels like he’s drawn his first breath in over a decade.

“She loved you too,” he says after some time has passed. Alice has long since finished her tea but looks in no hurry to leave. She’s watching pedestrians drift by the window when Harry speaks.

She smiles broadly. “Oh, I know. Which was why I chose to live the happiest, longest life possible.”

“Are you happy?”

“I’m _ridiculously_ happy,” she says. “I’ll show you something.” She rummages around in her rucksack and pulls out a wallet. She opens it and leans forward. “This is my wife, Neha.” She points to a brown-skinned woman with dark curly hair and a little girl perched on her lap. “And that's our daughter, Summer. She's three now.”

Harry stuffs his damp crumpled napkins in his pocket and leans close for a look. “They're beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Alice says.

He feels her gaze on him and lifts his head.

“I think we owe it to her, right?” Alice asks. “To be happy. I think that’s what she would have wanted, don’t you?”

After a moment, Harry concedes. “I think you’re right.”

Trouble is, when he imagines himself happy, it’s with Louis.

†

“What do you think God would say about me?”

Harry craned his head back to look at her. Cassie sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, a blanket around her shoulders.

“Take an educated guess,” she said, smiling.

Harry sat upright, pushing his fingers further into the pebbly sand at Brighton Beach. “I think he’d be proud. He’d say ‘I really hit the nail on the head with this one’.”

“Unlikely,” Cassie said with a snort. “Want to know what he’d think of you?”

Harry smiled so his dimple appeared. “That I’m the perfect combination of fit and cute.”

“Shut up.” Cassie pulled the blanket more tightly around herself. It was starting to get too chilly for trips to the beach. Perhaps the next time they came, it’d be with their baby. “He’d think you were a mess.”

“Well, thanks.”

“In the way that paint splatter is a mess. You’re the piece of modern art that doesn't make sense to anyone but its creator.”

“I’m flattered, really.”

Cassie shoved him in the shoulder. “You’re the work the artist is most proud of. The one born out of the most chaotic parts of God’s brain. He made you when he was tripping on acid.”

“I’ll take that,” Harry said. “I bet he was high when he made us both.”

“Explains a lot,” Cassie said, laughing. She lied back and Harry followed her, both staring up at the sky. “Do you know how galaxies are created?”

“I think so.”

“I’ll tell you anyway. Clouds of space dust and gas collapse under the pressure of their own gravity. They’re born out of chaos. There are two forces at odds with each other and then everything bends and _boom_ , you’ve got the Milky Way.”

Harry didn’t respond because he was picturing it happening at that very moment some light years away. Also because Cassie had a point she was getting to. She shuffled closer, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I've been thinking lately about how blessed our baby is. All those parenting guides say it's better for a child to be raised by parents who love each other. And I know they mean two people who are married and in love. But our baby will have that too. ‘Cause there’s no one I love more than you. We’re such a fucking mess, but it works and it’s beautiful.”

Harry smiled. “Beautifully chaotic.”

“Exactly.”

She was quiet again for a while, her fingertips moving across her rounded stomach. “I think we should name her Andromeda.”

Their parents would hate it. They’d prefer something conservative and preferably Anglo-Saxon, but Harry didn’t care. He looked at Cassie and her smile matched his own.

“I like it.”

†

Harry wakes from a delirious half-sleep to the sound of footsteps on the walls. He pictures a hundred military boots, a whole brigade, stomping up toward the ceiling. He opens his eyes and his head spins. Talking heads on the telly chatter on, the room bathed in their blue-white glow. More footsteps. Belle starts yapping and he quiets her. Too much noise. He sets his forehead in his hand and looks towards the door as the sound of the brigade starts up again. Not footsteps. Just a very inconsiderate person knocking.

Slowly, he tumbles out of the couch, careful to avoid Rhea and Mell spread out on the floor. He starts towards the door, keeping his hand on some surface at all times. His legs feel like pudding. It’s a miracle he makes it. He yanks the door open.

For a second, it's as if Cassie is standing there, leather jacket, thick eyeliner, wild hair, and a guitar case strapped to her back. He blinks again and it’s Andy, which is almost as unbelievable.

“Are you drunk?” she asks. No ‘hello’. No ‘sorry for not calling you back for nearly two weeks’.

Harry narrows his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” Andy says, slipping past him and into the flat.

“Since _when_?”

“My bedroom’s the way I left it, so I technically still live here.” Andy looks at the empty bottle on the coffee table, a wine glass toppled over on the floor. “Who gets drunk alone on a Saturday night?”

Harry pushes the door closed. It isn’t what it looks like, but he doesn’t say so because he doesn’t owe her an explanation. Earlier he disposed of every cigarette in his possession, including the ones he hides for emergencies. He poured out his alcohol too, excluding the one bottle Louis bought him from Monaco. And then he drank all of said bottle as a last hurrah before entering into a hopefully more sober leg of his life.

“Why are you questioning me after not speaking to me for over a week?” Harry asks. He goes to the coffee table, sets the glass atop it and turns to face her. Her mascara is smudged and her hair unkempt. She curls her arms over her chest.

“I just need a place to stay for the night,” she says, ignoring his question.

He waves toward her bedroom. “Make yourself comfortable.”

She doesn’t move. “Are you actually mad at _me_?"

Harry laughs, looking at Belle who’s come to sit at his feet. “She makes it sound so unbelievable,” he says.

“What could I have possibly done that would even compare to you shagging my producer for months behind my back? And lying to me over and over again about it? And trotting around with him and getting papped and nearly ruining my whole band? If I did any of that to you, you wouldn’t talk to me either.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Harry mutters. “I don’t have that option as a parent to just stop speaking to you. That's not how it works for me.”

“The point is that you would if you could. The point is that you know what you did is a hundred times worse than the silent treatment—"

“Why are you here?”

“I'm not welcome here now?"

“I’m just surprised you remember the way,” Harry says. “What is it? What’s driven you all the way home?”

She reaches for her bag on the ground. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Andy,” he says firmly.

“ _What_?”

He doesn’t say anything. He waits. She stares at him and then down at her feet. She draws a breath, her nostrils flaring, presses her hand to her forehead.

“I fucked up,” she says so quietly he nearly misses it.

His heart sinks. “How?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“It does to me.”

Her lips tremble. “Everything is a mess, alright? I ruined everything. It’s my fault. And it doesn't matter anymore because I'm done with those girls. I hate them. Every single one of them.”

Harry moves closer, cautiously. “What happened?”

Andy chews her thumbnail. “I didn’t mean for it to get serious.” She dries her palms on the sides of her jeans. The strap of her bag slips off and the bag returns to the floor. “We kissed once, on a dare, because we were drunk, and she was the first girl I ever kissed, so it got to my head or something. And I thought I was wrong about her.”

Harry doesn’t ask who because his first thought is Kendra and ‘Kandy’. He remembers how close they’d always been and how happy he was a year ago thinking Andy was making friends in the band. Maybe they were more friendly than he thought.

“I feel so stupid,” Andy says. “I can’t trust anyone. I trusted her and I look like an idiot now. Everyone lies all the fucking time. I’m sick of it.”

That blows lands on Harry, even if it’s not meant for him right then. He’d say sorry again, but he’s left enough texts and voicemails doing as much.

Instead he asks, “How long have you and Kendra been—?” He gestures at the air. “Doing whatever it is you’re doing?”

“Kendra?” Andy blinks at him. “No—”

Harry's thoughts slow to a still. “Who then?”

“Can we just leave it?”

“No, we can’t,” Harry says. “You’re here in the middle of the night, crying—”

“I’m not crying.”

“Just tell me,” Harry says, his patience thin.

She’s barely loud enough for him to hear. “Rose.”

Harry cranes his ear towards her. “Who?”

She glares at him.

“Oh, fuck.” Harry pushes his hands through his hair. “ _Why_?”

“I just told you,” Andy says. “I thought I could trust her, like I trusted you. And then she told the girls about you and Louis. She thinks I knew the whole time what was going on, and she wouldn’t believe me. She turned the girls against me. And they all hate me now. And everything is a mess. And I should hate her, but I don’t.”

The last bit she whispers and it makes him ill. He presses a hand to his stomach even. “How long has this been going on?”

“Since LA.”

“ _A_ _year_?”

Her eyes widen. “You're not actually judging me, right? When you kept secrets too?”

“But I could say the same to _you_.”

“It's not the same thing at all.”

“Of course it bloody is. You feeling anything for a band member in an all-girl band? That absolutely jeopardises your career. Way more than anything to do with me and Louis.”

“I specifically asked you not to do this with Louis.”

“But it doesn’t fucking _work_ that way,” Harry says. “You don’t choose who you love. It just happens.”

“Then why are you yelling at me?”

“I’m not yelling,” Harry says, although he might be. “And Jesus, you don’t love her.”

“I might’ve if you didn’t ruin the whole thing.”

Harry chokes on a laugh. “You’ve actually lost it.”

“I don’t _care_ ,” Andy says, snatching her bag off the floor again. “I don’t care what happens to them. I don’t care what you do with Louis. None of it matters. I need to focus on being solo. That’s all I need anyone for now. Nothing else matters. They don’t matter.”

The words might have more impact if she weren’t crying, but they still make him recoil.

“Where do you get that from?” Harry asks. “You think it’s okay to just write people off and use them anyhow? Where’d you learn that?”

Andy rolls her eyes all the way around her sockets, which makes the fresh tears building there fall free. “It’s called having a backbone,” she says. “So probably from my mum.”

Harry feels like he’s taken a kick to the stomach, if the lack of breath for several seconds is any indication. Andy refuses to look at him. Neither of them speaks. He stares at her, trying to find his little girl buried under the smudged eyeliner and the big jacket like a suit of armour, but he can’t. It doesn’t sadden him as much as it resigns him.

“You wanted that one to hurt,” he says tiredly. “Nice work.”

Andy bows her head, he hopes, in shame rather than defiance.

“You couldn't be more wrong,” Harry says. “Your mum was crazy half the time but she never hurt people when she could avoid it. And I fight for a lot of things. Always for you. So that you can be happy and have the life you want.”

His eyes sting and suddenly, he wants to sob like a child and roll around on the floor and put his fist through a wall. Mostly, he doesn’t want to be the adult right now. Cassie may have thought he was cut out for being a dad but he doesn’t feel it in that moment.

“Some things I decide not to fight for and that’s also for you,” Harry says, his voice brittle. “You’ve got no idea—” He presses the heels of his palms into his eyelids harshly and when that doesn't work, he lifts the end of his shirt upward and blots his eyes and takes a moment with his face hidden to draw a deep, unsteady breath.

“Dad.”

Andy sounds five again, which is the last thing he can handle. He drops his shirt and looks at her again.

“Let’s get something straight, yeah?” he says without another breath. He holds his arms out. “I’m not sorry about Louis. I wish I’d told you, I do. I'm sorry I didn’t. But I’m not sorry for being with him. You don’t get to make me feel wrong for being with someone who loves me. Not you. Not anyone. And I won’t feel sorry for loving them back. Everything I’ve ever done, I’ve done for you. Or for your mum. But Louis was mine. I deserved him.”

He lifts Belle into his arms and turns away, then turns back. This is it. Should they never speak again, this will be his final lesson. One he's learning too.

“You should try forgiving people for the mistakes they make,” Harry says. “It might make it easier to forgive yourself.”

†

It’s unclear how much time has passed when his bedroom door opens. For a moment he thinks he’s dreaming. Socked feet shuffle on the floor. Curly silver hair catches moonlight. The bed creaks beneath Andy’s weight. She settles into the space beside Harry and then she’s quiet, but not for long.

The sound doesn’t catch him by surprise. He’s expecting it, the tiny sob that leaves her mouth. She presses half her face into the pillow like she’s trying to be quiet. She fails miserably. He listens to her until he can’t anymore and then he reaches out and pulls her close. He rests his forehead against the back of her head.

“It’s okay,” he says.

Andy cries and cries. She cries so badly her body shakes and it’s terrifying. He holds onto her as tightly as he can, worried he’ll watch her disintegrate in front of him.

“It’s okay,” he says again, his voice breaking. “I’m here."

He’s taken back to her first day of school. To the first onslaught of bullies and snotty-nosed boyfriends. He recounts her first fall on her first bike. Her first awareness of Mother’s Day. Her first audition for her first play, followed by her first rejection.

She’s never cried like this, but they’ve been here before. She could be small enough to fit into his arms or old enough to spew words so venomous he cries himself, but he will always be her dad when she needs him.

When there’s nothing left but half a box of tissues, she turns in his arms so they're facing each other. He combs the hair away from her eyes and rests his cheek against her head.

“I’m sorry for not talking to you,” she says.

“Say you’re sorry in the morning,” Harry mumbles. “Just sleep.”

“I can’t."

“Want me to tell you a bedtime story then?”

“I’ll pass,” she says with a quiet laugh. She pulls away a bit so she can look at him. He gives her a small smile. She tries to do the same but it looks like she's near to crying again. “I’ve ruined everything.”

“I know the feeling,” Harry says. “But you haven’t. There's always a solution.”

Andy shakes her head and turns onto her back. “I don’t even know if I _want_ to fix it,” she says. “Nothing is the way I thought it’d be. It's hard to find people who are genuine. I know you said not to fall for fans but I’ll meet a nice person on the road and I’ll fool myself into thinking they’re into me just because and then it turns out they did it all for Twitter followers. I hate Twitter. I hate social media. I hate that I can’t just take a walk anymore without someone recognising me. Sometimes I don’t want to be recognised. I hate that I have to think so hard about how I look or that I’m self-conscious now about my stomach.”

“There’s nothing at all wrong with your stomach.”

Andy lifts the hem of her shirt and pulls at the bit of pudgy flesh above her waistband and looks at him.

“Christ,” Harry says, slapping a hand to his chest. “You're right. How could I miss _that_?”

She laughs. A real genuine laugh for the first time in forever. “Shut up,” she says, swiping her wrist beneath her nose. “I’ve seen people say stuff on Twitter.”

“You shouldn’t look at what people say about you from behind a computer screen. That person could live under a rock with fifty cats.”

“Maybe.” She shrugs. “I still hate that I care. I don’t think I used to care about that stuff. I don’t know why I do now.”

“The spotlight changes you.”

“I hate the spotlight. I hate that it’s on me and not the music. No one cares about the music.”

“That’s not true.”

“The media doesn’t care about the music. They care about who I’m dating and who _you’re_ dating and it’s all such bullshit. It’s exhausting. I keep thinking I’ll get used to it but it’s already been two years.”

“Two years isn't enough time to adjust to anything. I still forget you aren't in your room sometimes. Or I'll pull a second cup from the cupboard when I'm making tea.”

“How cute,” Andy coos.

Harry rolls his eyes. “I say give it four years at least. You'll get the hang of it all then.” He props his head up in his palm and looks at her. “You know you don’t have to keep doing this, if you don’t want to.”

“I signed a contract.”

“We’d work it out,” Harry says. “If this isn’t what you want anymore, we’ll figure it out.”

She goes quiet for a while after that and Harry thinks seriously about the logistics of it. Niall would shit himself. He’d try to talk them out of it. The legal fees would be horrendous, he’d say. And Harry can’t imagine how much money they would lose or owe in the end. And if there was any hope of repairing things with Louis, it’d be unlikely if he destroyed his first and only girl band. Any hope of moving into a new home or getting a new car would be dashed too. He’ll be a florist forever.

“I love performing,” Andy says, interrupting his brain’s downward spiral. “I love being on stage and singing. I love the crowd. And it sucks sometimes, but that never does. I love inspiring girls to be whoever they want. I like what I do, even if I hate it sometimes. I think it's what I was born to do _._ ”

“Your mum would agree.”

In a month, there would be a break in the tour. Andy could come home. They could go on a trip. Maybe everything would look different then.

“Rose isn’t a nice person,” she says. “I think maybe she wasn’t always that way. But she is now.”

“She's young. She's got time to change. You deserve better, though. You know that.”

Andy looks at him. “Should I be saying the same to you?”

His brows crease. “What?”

“I know Louis is in Argentina. Without you,” she says. “Did he dump you?”

“No,” Harry says immediately, and vaguely defensive. “Well, maybe. But it was me. I messed it up.”

“What happened?”

This is the last thing he wants to talk about, but she’s voiced so much of her inner muck, it seems unfair not to do the same. “I don’t know. Maybe I panicked,” he says, letting his head fall to the pillow again. He turns onto his back, his eyes on the ceiling. “I don’t want you to feel guilty about this, alright? My life since I was seventeen has been devoted mostly to you. I’ve tried dating for years but I never loved any of those men or cared enough to let them get close to you, in my heart or otherwise. But Louis— When I’m with him I can hardly think. There's this constant feeling of being swept up, of floating. And you're always there in my mind, Bee, but sometimes for days on end, it seemed like he was all I could think about. And it scared me, especially when it came to the article and feeling like I had to put you first. I love you, Bee. I’ve done everything I can to show you that. I just think maybe I didn’t do enough to show Louis that I love him too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Just sleep. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

She quiets. He thinks she’s dozed off after several minutes of silence and then her voice comes again.

“At first, I genuinely hated her, you know? But then we got drunk a few times and talked and it’s hard to keep thinking of someone as a monster when there's so much about them that's human. Her favourite color is blue. She’s a beast at footie. She hates grapes, but loves raisins. Puts them in her oatmeal. She never knew her dad and her mum died in a car accident when she was nine. Rachel worked three jobs and saved up for a year to buy her her first guitar.

“She can be so good when she wants to be. So kind. But she’s not nice,” Andy says, her voice breaking again. “She’s not nice to me, I know that, but it doesn’t change what’s going on here…” She presses her hand to her heart.

Harry drags both hands over his face. “You absolutely get this from me and I’m sorry. I used to fall for the worst men. I know how it hurts, but I promise, it’s not always this way. One day you’ll fall in love for real and you’ll know when you do. Because someone will come along and show you how it feels.”

“Like Louis?”

“Like Louis.”

“Are you going to get him back?”

Harry sighs, pushing his hair away from his face. “I’m going to try,” he says. “I think I might have ruined things. Don’t date arseholes like me, by the way.”

“You’re not an arsehole. If Louis loves you, he knows that. You're human. You make mistakes.”

“Too many mistakes.”

“Then stop,” Andy says. “Giving up is a mistake. Start by not doing that.”

“I haven’t given up.”

“But you’re preparing yourself for the worst possible outcome, which is almost the same thing.”

“Jesus,” Harry says with a short, surprised laugh. He feels too exposed all of a sudden. Because she’s right. As much as he wants to feel hopeful, there’s still that voice in his head telling him to lower his expectations. As much as he wants to forgive himself, the voice says ‘No’.

He often imagined it was Cassie, communicating to him from the other side, but Cassie never thought anything but the best of him. It’s been him the whole time. The person who expected the worst of Harry, thought the worst of him— It was always Harry himself.

“It's been awhile since I've felt this way without someone,” he says quietly. “Like half a person.”

Andy turns to him, dropping her arm across his waist. “Since mum,” she mumbles, sounding sleepy at last.

“Right,” Harry says.

“He completes you,” Andy says.

“I think so.”

“Say it to him like that.”


	10. Chapter 10

It's not a full night of sleep, but it’s a better one than Harry’s had in days. He wakes to sunlight pouring into his room, which means Andy is up and did him the unwelcome favour of drawing back his curtains. He hears the kettle howling and a moment later, she enters with a steaming cuppa and a bright, cheerful, “Good morning!”

A night of sleep has done wonders for her too. Her face is clear of ruined make-up and tear stains. Her curls are contained in a tidy bun. Her T-shirt is tattered as ever, but most of theirs are, and she’s swapped her jeans for pyjama bottoms.

“I'm not ready to be awake yet,” Harry says.

“I'm afraid you don't have much choice.” Andy sets the cup down on the table beside him. “Drink up.”

She rounds the bed to the other side and drags Harry’s suitcase up on top. She goes to his dresser, retrieves two pairs of his jeans and tosses them towards the bed.

Harry pushes himself upright, reaching for his cup of tea. “What are you doing?”

“I called the airline and got you a ticket,” Andy says, pressing the jeans into the suitcase. “And a car will be here in about forty minutes.”

He freezes. “Wait, what—?”

“I know you’re scared, but don’t you think he might be too?”

Harry sets the cup back down. It’s too early for so many words. “What are you _talking_ about?”

Andy sighs. “I booked you the earliest, quickest flight to Argentina that I could find. I got Louis’ address there from Fizzy. You have less than forty minutes to get ready.”

“No,” Harry says, cradling his forehead in his palm. “Andy, he clearly wants time away from me. When he's back in London, I’ll talk to him.”

“You don’t even know when he’s planning to come back. What if he never comes back? The longer you wait, the worse it is. He’s afraid. You didn't show him how much you loved him, yeah? You just have to show him now.” She goes to Harry’s cupboard and returns with an armful of shirts which she stuffs into the suitcase. “Get up and get dressed,” she says. “Work with me here.”

Afraid isn't a word he could ever use for Louis. Not Louis who belongs in every dictionary next to the words ‘fearless’ and ‘brave’. It pains him to fully consider, but then he recalls some of the last words Louis said to him.

_How can you not love me as much as I love you?_

And waiting on an answer to a question like that would scare anyone, wouldn't it?

Andy stops packing and stares at him. “Sorry. Did you say you _loved_ him or do you just fancy him? Because I’m not really sure.”

“I love him.”

“Then get _up_ , Dad!” she demands. “And tell him so.”

Harry gets up. He forces himself into the bathroom. He scrubs his face clean, ignoring the grey hairs and the spots. His hair is atrocious. He throws it into a bun and pulls a baseball cap on. He pulls on a clean T-shirt, toothbrush jammed in his mouth.

“This is crazy,” he mutters, hopping into jeans.

“We’ve done worse.”

“Don’t forget to pack the yellow trunks,” he says while he searches for his passport. “And jumpers. It's cold there.”

“You expect so little of me, really,” she replies with a heavy sigh.

She isn’t folding a thing, but there’s no time left to undo her mess. She sits on the suitcase while Harry zips it closed. He grabs his keys, his passport, his wallet and jams them into the front pocket of his suitcase. He shoves his feet into some ratty trainers. He looks ridiculous and frazzled, but it's fitting.

“Car’s here,” Andy calls, standing by the window overlooking the street. Her phone rings. She answers: “He’ll be right down.” She shoves a banana into Harry’s chest at the door. He looks at her and lifts his hands to her face and cups her dimpled cheeks.

“I love you so much,” he says fiercely. “Do you understand?”

“There’s no time—”

“I don’t care,” Harry says. “I love you very, very much.”

“I love you too,” she says. They pull each other into a crushing hug. She presses a kiss to his cheek, tucks her head against his shoulder for just a second and steps back. “Don't come back without him.”

He kisses her forehead and steps through the door. He takes the stairs two at a time to the street, the suitcase bucking and clattering behind him. He slides into the back seat of the car and tells the driver to head for the airport.

†

The ‘quickest flight’ available from London to Buenos Aires is still the longest Harry’s ever taken. It’s succeeded by a flight from Argentina’s capital to Bariloche, the shining city ringed by snow-capped mountains and bordered by colossal Lake Nahuel Huapi. Harry learns a lot from Google during the first five hours. He dozes afterwards, wakes up, reads, and uses the loo a handful of times.

He lands in Buenos Aires at 7 PM local time, and then there’s a two-hour layover before the next two-hour flight. His exhaustion is second to his anxiety as he boards. When he lands it’ll be close to midnight and for the first time, he realises he might have done all this only for Louis to be asleep. He has two cups of coffee, which does nothing to settle him or keep him awake. He’s running on pure adrenaline.

It's winter in Argentina and from what he can see under the cover of night, Bariloche is a marvel. Harry exits the blue and white taxi, thanking the driver again before he pulls off, and stands frozen, not from the cold but from the sight of the moonlit snow-capped mountains in the distance.

His breath plumes white as he takes a quick turn and stops when he notices the front window of Louis’ home faintly illuminated. He tugs his phone from his back pocket and sends his first message to Louis in days and hopefully the only one that’ll get through to him.

_I’m outside and I’m not leaving._

Harry waits, his gaze darting across the face of Louis’ house. He’s prepared to stand there all night if necessary. But a whole minute doesn’t pass before an outdoor lamp flickers on and the front door opens. Louis stands there, his brows wrinkled in confusion, lips parted.

Harry lifts his hand and waves. “Hi.”

Louis steps out into the cold wearing just a pair of thick socks, an oversized black jumper, and jeans. It takes him a second. “Hi.”

“I hope I didn’t wake you. I should’ve called,” Harry says. “I was in a hurry to get here.”

There was more than enough time between London and Bariloche to call or text, but he needed the element of surprise on his side.

He doesn’t know what he expects in reply, but it isn’t: “Why?”

Or more specifically: “Why’d you come?”

A week ago, that might’ve been enough to send Harry away. He’s never seen Louis less eager to be near him. Even his hands stuffed in his pockets feels like a way of warding Harry off or shutting him out. And it might have worked a week ago.

Harry draws a breath and lifts his chin.

“Because when I imagine the future, I’m with you,” he says. “We’re married with children and pets. And we’re happy. So happy we don’t know what to do with ourselves. ‘Sometime in the future’ is whenever you’re ready. I couldn’t answer you before because I was scared. Because I thought I had to choose, but I don’t. I love my daughter, Louis, but God knows I fucking love you too. And I promise, if you let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life showing you how much.”

Louis crosses his arms tight. “Whenever I'm ready,” he repeats, sounding disbelieving.

“I’d marry you now,” Harry says. “And then I’d tell everyone. I want to tell everyone.”

Louis covers his face with both hands and stays frozen that way for over a minute. A car passes by. Two birds fly overhead. Harry thinks to say something else. Then Louis drags his hands away, leaving his eyes damp, his cheeks flushed.

“I don’t think I can do this,” he says, exhaling a trembling breath. He dries his hands on his jeans, shaking his head. “It hurts to love you, Harry, and I don't think it should. I can’t— I’m sorry.” He presses his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes. “You can stay here tonight since you came all this way…”

Harry doesn't move. He might end up doing some desperate if he does, like wrapping his arms around Louis’ legs and refusing to let go. That obviously won’t work. Apparently, nothing will. He never expected this to be easy, but he thought if he could just be honest, finally, that might be enough. But he’s too late.

That's life, isn't it? Always moving too quickly. Never allowing enough time for anyone to catch up.

His eyes sting but he bears down on the urge. He’ll cry plenty on the flight home. He just has to say one more thing.

“You’re wrong,” he tells Louis. “I know that tends to be me, but this time you're wrong. Love hurts sometimes, but it’s worth it. ‘Cause when it doesn’t hurt, it’s unlike like anything else. You feel whole, complete. There’s no fear or doubt or emptiness at all. And that’s worth it to me.”

Louis bows his head. “Harry—”

“I’ll leave,” Harry says, near to choking on the words. “I’ll leave if you want me to, but I don't think you do. I’ve been scared long enough to know what it looks like. You have every right to be scared. But there’s fear and then there’s fact. And the fact is that I’m _always_ going to love you, Louis. And you’ll always love me.”

Louis looks at him.

“Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you won’t lie awake thinking of me five or ten years from now. That you won’t regret giving this up. Because I can’t say the same. Love hurts, yeah. But not being with you will hurt a million times more.”

Then Harry waits.

Louis dries his face with the sleeves of his jumper and lets the silence stretch on and on, then mumbles, “I thought you said you stopped writing love songs.”

“I’d write you a thousand,” Harry says with a shadow of a glimmer of a smile.

Louis’ lips twitch. He rests his head against the doorframe. “Say it again.”

“All of it?”

Louis gives him a look.

“The bit about marrying you?”

Louis releases a breathless laugh. “Not quite.”

It hits him.

“I love you,” Harry says.

Louis lets his eyes close. “One more time.”

Harry moves closer and takes the front steps. “I love you.”

“Again.”

Harry stands in front of him when Louis’ lashes flutter upward. Their eyes meet. Harry’s palms cover the rough stubble on Louis’ jaw. His thumbs sweep across the damp tear tracks.

“I love you, Louis,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

Louis nods. “I know,” he says, reaching up to take Harry’s hand. He threads their fingers together. “Come inside.”

†

Harry drifts around the house while Louis gets the fireplace going again. He takes in the view from each window of the snowy peaks and the midnight-black lake stretched out between them. He pushes his cold feet into the soft carpet. The first thing he does is kick off his shoes and remove his socks just to feel the carpet between his toes.

The home smells like Louis, of coffee and Marlboro Lights and his cologne. Harry takes in the laptop, still open but asleep, on the coffee table, next to a still-cold bottle of Stella Artois and his lighter. His glasses rest beside his phone. It’s clear Louis wasn’t sleeping. When Harry looks at him, it’s also clear that he hasn’t done much sleeping at all.

“This is beautiful,” Harry tells him, wandering into the kitchen with its open brick walls and a copper-finished double oven. He drags a hand across the granite worktop. “I’d hide out here too.”

“My family knows where I am.”

“Hiding from me, I mean,” Harry says.

Louis pushes his hands deep into his pockets and lifts his shoulders. “That’s fair.” He looks smaller stood that way and not for the first time, Harry wants to hold him. He still feels a little out of place and maybe like one wrong move will blow this all apart. So he doesn’t move at all.

“How’d you find me?” Louis asks.

“Andy helped. She rang your sister.”

“I asked my mum to tell you,” Louis says. “If you reached out to her.”

“So, you wanted me to come.”

“I wanted you to try,” Louis says.

“I’m here,” Harry says, as he unwinds his scarf. He removes his coat and tosses both over the back of a chair by the table. “And I’m staying.”

Louis folds his arms over his chest. “Might as well keep going.”

Harry lifts his brows. Louis does the same. “Does  this mean I’m forgiven?” Harry asks, reaching for the hem of his jumper. He tugs it up over his head and drops it on the tiled floor.

“We’re getting there.”

Harry unbuttons his jeans. “Have I said yet that I’m in love with you?”

Louis smiles. “Take them off.”

Harry pushes his jeans down, stumbling forward a bit. He steps out of them, his smile small. He feels a bit young and foolish, waiting for Louis to say something, do anything.

Louis looks at his pants expectantly.

“Don’t make me stand here naked all night,” Harry says. “That’d be cruel.”

Louis shakes his head, laughing in spite of himself.

Harry gets rid of the pants. He slides a hand over his cock because his erection feels presumptuous. “Now you?” he asks, unashamedly hopeful.

Louis doesn’t keep him guessing for long. He steps close, pushing Harry’s hand away from his crotch so that his cock swings free. And then he kisses him. It’s a violent, tumultuous kiss. The instant their mouths meet, all of Louis’ anxiety and fear come flooding out like poison sucked from a wound. When they part, Harry cradles his face in his hands, looking at him until Louis opens his eyes.

“Don’t make me doubt you again, Harry,” he pleads.

Harry shakes his head. “Never again.”

He kisses Louis, licking into his mouth, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip a bit harshly the way he wants to sink into Louis himself. He peels Louis’ shirt off, dragging his mouth down his neck and across his shoulder, mapping out all his lines with his tongue. He falls to his knees, tugging Louis’ waistband beneath his cock and no further, and then without a breath or a pause, his mouth is on him, the tip of his nose grazing Louis’ soft stomach.

Louis’ back hits the edge of the worktop. Harry presses him into it, opens his throat for him, swallows around him. Louis groans. “I missed you,” he pants. His fingers against Harry’s cheek are soft. “Missed you so much.”

Harry whimpers and pulls off, his mouth spit-slick and red. “I want to make love to you.”

He wants to fuck Louis, wants to be fucked, but that would come later. They had all the time in the world. He says ‘make love’ because right now he wants every kiss and touch and thrust to be an outpouring of devotion. And if the first time he pushes into Louis isn’t enough, he says it.

‘I love you, I love you, I love you’ over and over and over again until they come.

†

“We should let the article run on Tuesday,” Harry says around midnight.

Louis smiles, thumbing Harry’s dimple. “I bought the pictures already. But it’s fine. When the time is right, it’ll happen.”

“When the time is right, I’ll do it with you,” Harry says. “I promise.”

“I believe you.” Louis reaches for his hip, pulling Harry atop his body. Their mouths meet as Louis runs his hands up his back. “Fuck me,” he says.

Because now it’s time for that.

Harry wakes later, thinking that he’s imagining the soft hum of piano keys. It’s not morning yet. His head is foggy like he’s been under for two hours at most. Another second passes and he spreads his hand out over the other side of the mattress and finds it cool.

It’s not an enormous house, but large enough that it takes him a second before he finds the room with the grand piano. It turns out to be a small recording studio complete with audio equipment and a soundboard. A wall of glass windows faces the lake, washing the room in the moonlight.

Louis sits, shirtless and barefoot, at the piano with his eyes closed behind his glasses. He’s singing, so softly Harry can’t make out the words. He’d miss it if he breathed, so he doesn’t for the next five seconds until Louis stops and lifts the pen atop a notebook beside him. That’s, of course, when he notices Harry.

“Okay if I watch?” Harry asks.

Louis rolls his eyes. “Come sit.”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He takes the space beside him, while Louis draws his notebook into his lap, scribbling away. “This is a nice set-up you’ve got here.”

“Thanks,” Louis says, smiling. “I had it built two years ago. Couldn’t sleep?”

“Not without you,” Harry says, easily. He feels Louis’ gaze on him afterwards. He presses a random key. “I’ve never seen you work on music.”

“You might see it more often,” Louis says, beginning to play again. He looks at Harry, grinning.

Harry narrows his eyes. “Is it finally time for your secret album?”

Louis shrugs. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he says. “Especially if the band falls apart.”

“Do you think the band’s falling apart?”

Louis sets his hands in his lap. “I don’t know. I spoke to Rose. She wants out and I don’t want to stop her. In a month, when they take their break in the tour, I’ll talk to her again and see where she’s at.” He sighs heavily. “I have to do what’s best for the band and right now, she’s not it.”

He starts to play again, pressing on a key here and there and managing something that still sounds harmonic. “I don’t know how the other girls would react to Rose leaving. I still believe that with time things would go back to normal, especially without her around. But maybe they won’t be able to see that. Maybe they’ll turn on Andy. I can’t have that.”

Harry runs his hand over Louis’ back, his skin warm and smooth. “When I first met your mum, she knew I was nervous about Andy performing. She said ‘the key to being confident in your children is being confident in how you raised them’. It’s taken me awhile to believe that, but I’m a damn good father and Andy’s a really good kid.”

“She is,” Louis says, smiling. “And you are.”

“And you’re an incredible producer,” Harry says. “Be confident in what you’ve created.” He props his chin on Louis’ shoulder. “The band won’t fall apart.”

Louis looks at him, their faces almost too close (if too close between them were possible).

“And if it does,” Harry says. “You, me and Andy, we’ll start a new band.”

Louis laughs, skin wrinkling like paper at the corners of his eyes, apples of his cheeks sporting a natural flush. “You’re going to need to audition like everyone else first,” he says, touching the keys again. “Starting now.”

Harry lifts his brows. “How so?”

“Just listen.”

He starts to sing again and the lyrics go like this:

 _This is what happens next_  
We fought, we did our best.  
You put down your sword.  
We’re sick of the war.  
It’s time we rest.

 _This is how we end it all_  
Not with a bang or a mighty fall.  
We crawl into bed, your head on my chest  
Then baby, we rest.

Louis looks at him, smirking. “You like it?”

“I love it,” Harry says, honestly.

“I wrote it about you,” Louis says.

Harry leans in for a kiss. “I love it,” he says again. “Thank you.”

“Sing it with me,” Louis says. He pulls back and nods to the notebook. Harry looks, seeing the lyrics there. Louis starts playing again, his smile growing. He cues Harry with another nod and it takes him a minute before he can sing without a stutter or a pause. Eventually, he knows the lyrics by heart.

They work until dawn comes seeping in through the curtains. They rewrite lyrics and forge new ones. Harry gets Louis’ guitar from the living room and builds an accompaniment. The music fuels them but only for so long. Eventually, Louis joins him on the couch by the window. Harry rests his head on Louis’ chest, strumming softly until he can’t anymore.

And then they rest.

†

The following day, they make like tourists. They have breakfast on a two-hour cruise around the lake, sipping strong cups of _café con leche_ flavoured with Bariloche’s finest chocolate and alfajores from a local bakery.

The sun gets caught in the soft swells of the water, the white clouds overhead and in the snow around them. It’s as endlessly bright as Harry feels. The view robs him of breath. He gets a few shots with his Leica but no camera could ever do it real justice. He’s pleased, at least, with the pictures he takes of Louis who is equally breathtaking from every angle.

Their captain insists that they hike to Ventisquero Negro, a glacier that flanks Cerro Tronador. Tronador, meaning ‘thundering’, takes its name from the sound of its glaciers cracking. It’s an extinct volcano in the southern Andes and the highest mountain surrounding Bariloche. Tourists come in droves to see all of its glaciers, the most notable being Ventisquero Negro. Their captain makes a convincing argument.

“Let’s do it,” Harry says.

Louis smiles. “I’m up for it.”

They dock in the village of Pampa Linda and start from there. It’s a comfortable walk, though it’s over an hour long and they stop twice along the way for more pictures. Their guide, Daniel, chats when they want to chat, but mostly gives them privacy. They avoid tourists, sticking to the routes a little less travelled.

“Here it is,” Daniel says, pointing through the clearing of trees ahead. “Ventisquero Negro.”

They approach the edge of the hill as Daniel moves aside and leaves them be.

As they stand there, they can see the jagged ice of the glacier, though it’s receded plenty in several years, according to Daniel. Down below the water is an unearthly arctic blue that appears to glow in the sun. Less than a mile away from them, the frothy peak of Cerro Tronador soars high. There are tourists down below taking pictures, so Harry snaps a few of Louis too and then they summon Daniel to take one of them both.

“Been coming here for three years now and I’ve never been this close to that mountain,” Louis says.

Harry sits down on the cool grass, bracing his arms on his knees. “Now you can cross it off your list.”

Louis sits beside him, stretching his legs out. “I feel like I’ve crossed a few things off my list lately. Having you here is one of them,” he says, after a while. Harry moves closer until their legs and arms touch. Louis rests his head against his shoulder and murmurs, “I can’t get enough of this.”

“Lucky you never have to,” Harry replies.

Minutes pass to the sound of water moving nearby.

“Louis.”

“Hm?”

“Let’s get married,” Harry says.

Louis lifts his head and stares at him for a good minute. It’s not as unnerving as it used to be. He cracks a smile. “You don’t have to prove anything to me,” he says. “I trust you. I trust that you’re here to stay.”

Harry shakes his head. “You don’t understand. I’m going to be with you for the rest of my life,” he says. “I know that. We’re old and in love. There’s no sense in waiting.”

“We’re not old.”

“Marry me anyway,” Harry says.

Louis laughs and then falls quiet, just looking at him, searching. He must find whatever he’s looking for. “Are you sure?”

“Louis,” Harry says again.

“Okay.”

“Is that a yes?”

Louis laughs again, his cheeks a soft rose red. He’s never been more beautiful. “Yes.”

†

“You’re sweating.”

Harry pulls at his collar. “It’s warm in here.”

It isn’t. The restaurant features ceiling fans, circulating enough air that he shouldn’t be perspiring as much as he is, and London is starting to cool down. He felt the first autumn chill in the air that morning, right on time with September starting in a week.

“You’re nervous,” Louis says.

Harry pats his brow and top lip with a napkin. “Don’t know what makes you think that.”

“It’ll be fine,” Louis says, taking his hand. He presses a kiss to his palm. “Just relax.”

Harry tries. He imagines himself in Bariloche, sipping wine in a hot tub beside Louis as he’d been only three days ago. But it only works until the second he spots Andy stepping through the door up ahead and then his nerves spike again. She sees them and with a wave, starts her way to their table. They’re in a private section of the restaurant. The second she’s out of public view, she pushes her sunglasses up into her hair.

Harry and Louis stand, exchanging a kiss on the cheek with her, and then they all sit. A waiter fills her water glass and she drains half of it after placing an order for a cappuccino. It’s  the first time it occurs to Harry that she might be nervous too. When they’re alone, she looks at them, smiling. He and Louis smile back.

“This is a little weird, to be honest,” she reports.

“You think so?” Louis says, his brows creasing. “I feel great.”

“My dad and I are usually sat across from you. And now you two are sat across from me. It’s a little weird,” she says again. The waiter returns with her cappuccino. She thanks him and has a sip, then folds her hands in her lap.

“We brought you chocolate,” Harry says, reaching into the gift bag at his side. He sets it on the table. “Bariloche is Argentina’s chocolate capital. It’s good stuff.”

Andy grins, lifting the box. She runs her fingers over the neat bow binding it together. “Thanks.”

“How are things with the band?” Harry asks.

Andy shrugs. “Better, I guess. Rose isn’t speaking to me, but I’m not speaking to her either, so it’s fine. Kendra and I talked two days ago. She’s cool now. Mercy doesn’t actually care.”

“That’s good, I think,” Louis says. “We don’t want any of this to be more difficult for you than it has been already.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Andy says. “I’m glad you two worked things out.”

Harry glances at Louis and reaches for his hand again. “We did,” he says. “And there’s actually something we want to ask you.”

“Are you coming out?” Andy asks, her question directed to Louis. “‘Cause I’m cool with it. I’m sorry I wasn’t before. That was selfish of me.”

“It wasn’t,” Louis says. “But no— Eventually, we will, but that’s not what we wanted to say.”

Andy waits, having another careful sip from her cup.

Harry clears his throat. “We’re eloping this week,” he says, quickly. “And we’re hoping you’ll come be a witness for us.”

She freezes with the cup at her lips, then sets it down with a thud. She looks straight at Louis. “You want to marry this guy?” she asks, pointing her thumb in Harry’s direction. Harry’s mouth falls open.

Louis laughs. “I do.”

Andy sits back in her seat. “And you want to be my stepdad? I can be a nightmare.”

“We all know that,” Harry says.

Louis’ smile softens. “I think I’m up for the challenge,” he says. “But thanks for the warning.”

She returns his smile, her cheeks dimpling. “Alright, you crazy kids,” she says, sitting forward again. “Just give me a date and I’ll be there.”

“We’re going to take a jet to New Zealand on Friday,” Louis says.

She nods, lifting her menu. “Sounds posh. I’m in.”

†

 **Andromeda Styles. (@AndyStyles)** : Big, big congrats to my dad @Harry_Styles on getting married today!!! Love you forever xx

 **Andromeda Styles. (@AndyStyles)** : @Louis_Tomlinson I know you’ll be as good a stepdad as you are a producer! Welcome to the family! xx

†

**SEPTEMBER 2018**

Gemma is a vision in white. Her dress has a high lace neck and long lace sleeves. It fits her loosely, which makes it hard to tell that she’s six months pregnant. She’s always wanted an autumn wedding and waiting another year until after Baby Ava was born wasn’t an option she really considered.

As their mother fastens her necklace, Gemma meets Harry’s eye in the mirror and smiles.

“You should’ve had one of these too,” she says.

Harry smiles back. “I did.”

“Right.” She nods. “We just weren’t invited.”

“I was,” Andy chimes in while dressing Alfie. “And it was beautiful.”

Harry’s smile grows. Beautiful might not be enough to encompass the affair. His small wedding with Louis was everything they needed it to be. Coromandel Beach is cut off from the rest of New Zealand’s coast by steep rocky cliffs. They were aiming for seclusion and got it. Just them, Andy, another witness, and a celebrant, and Harry said ‘I do’ as confidently and strongly as the waves crashing against the shore.

If Andy’s tweets and the moving lorries in front of Louis’ home weren’t enough, the red carpet appearance did it. The film documenting the first year and a half of The Wonderlands was finally released earlier in September and he and Louis arrived at the premiere together with wedding bands on their interlocked fingers. The media was thrown into a frenzy.

Harry twists the silver ring around his finger idly.

The attention might never simmer down like Louis predicted. More people take interest in their lives with each passing day. But Harry doesn't mind as much as he thought he would. It's hard to have the kind of life he does now and worry needlessly.

“We’ve seen the pictures,” his mum says, drawing close to him. “It looked like a lovely ceremony.” She presses a kiss to his forehead. “You looked happy.”

“I’m very happy,” Harry says, his smile dissipating the instant he sees her eyes shining. “Mum—”

“I’m happy seeing you both happy,” she says, tearfully, taking his hand, then reaching for Gemma’s. She dabs at her cheeks with her fingertips and draws a breath. “Gem, darling. Let’s get you married.”

Harry leaves to do his groomsmen duties, which consists of two rounds of shots with Ralph and the boys, and an encouraging pat on Ralph’s shoulder. He walks with Alfie down the aisle, exchanging repeated glances and a funny face with Louis.

The ceremony is relatively quick, even after Gemma and Ralph read their handwritten vows. They seal it with a kiss and then it's off to Ralph’s parents’ home for a backyard reception. Ralph comes from old money, which means his parents live in a pseudo-castle. It’s complete with a lighted garden and more than one fountain. They have a heated tent set up that looks more magical once the sun sets.

Harry sips a glass of champagne and watches Louis on the dance floor. There’s a little girl in his arms, and he’s clearly enamoured. Harry finishes off his glass and wanders over to him.

“Do you mind if I cut in?” he asks. The girl clings to Louis more tightly in response. Harry laughs. “Competition is steep.”

Louis smiles. “I don’t even know whose kid this is.”

“Chloe’s,” Harry says. “Gemma’s best friend. Her name is Morgan.”

“She’s a sweetheart,” Louis says, resting his head against hers as they sway. Harry is obviously not jealous. What he feels is something else entirely. Endeared. Emboldened.

“You two should dance,” Chloe says, appearing beside them. “I’ll take her.”

Morgan complains as she’s carried away, her tiny hands outstretched towards Louis. Louis stares after her and waves, his smile soft. Then he turns to Harry, taking him by the waist. Harry fits their hands together and steps close.

“Do you regret not having a big wedding?” he asks, as they begin to move.

“No,” Louis says. “I’d’ve married you in a car with no regrets.”

“They do that in Vegas, you know? Drive-thru weddings.”

“Do they?”

“Think I read that somewhere,” Harry muses. “Still no regrets?”

“None.”

Harry runs his fingers through the hair at Louis’ nape. He presses his nose into the curve of Louis’ neck and inhales the scent of Tom Ford and his shampoo. His gaze sweeps across the tent. He meets eyes with Louis’ mum, then his own mum sat beside her. He looks at each of their family members gathered together, feels the warmth of the man in his arms, and thinks few things could make it any better.

“I like having you to myself,” Harry says. “But I wouldn’t mind sharing you with the right person.”

“Are you asking me for a threesome?” Louis says, warily.

Harry laughs. “Absolutely not,” he says. As much as he loves his daughter, his first threesome didn’t end exactly as planned. He’ll have to pass on a second. He presses his smile into Louis’ shoulder. It takes him a minute, but he gets there eventually. “I think we should have a baby.”

Louis draws back immediately and they look at each other.

“I know I had something to do with why you put off adopting,” Harry says. “But I’m not saying this just for your sake. I want a family with you and I think we should get started.”

Louis steps close to Harry again, but not before Harry catches his eyes shining. They start to sway. “I’m the happiest man in the world,” Louis says.

Harry smiles. “You and me both.”

“That's a yes, by the way.”

†

“You’re going to love it here,” Harry says, setting the three copies of the same key on his old dining room table. The table is just one of a few pieces Vince and Aisha decided to keep and it comes engraved with Andy’s initials which she carved there six years ago. Harry says, “We definitely did.”

“We love it already,” Aisha says, with a sympathetic smile. Harry must look on the verge of tears. “Thank you for all the furniture. And the job in the shop.”

“I’m happy to help,” Harry says. But it was more than charity that inspired his pick of the new tenants. He saw something of himself in the yuppie couple upon meeting them. They were fresh out of uni with not much to their name except a pet hedgehog and a few instruments from their grade school band. They have a wild quality to their gazes, as though they are at all times equally excited and terrified.

That was Harry over fifteen years ago, climbing the creaky steps past the flower shop with Andy in his arms and her tiny hand curled up in his hair. That was him when he took her forefinger and showed her how to pluck A, D, G, B and both Es and her eyes turned to stars. Harry has always been caught between terror and wonder. The perfect choice for his slightly dilapidated little haunt are two people who feel the same.

“I should go,” Harry says. “You have my number if you need anything at all.”

“Do you want to take one last look?” Aisha asks quickly. “Before we move all our junk in.”

Harry hesitates.

“We don’t mind,” Vince says.

“Maybe just a quick one,” Harry says with a grateful smile.

They leave him to it, lingering by the front door while Harry bypasses his own bedroom and steps into Andy’s. Or what used to be Andy’s.

It’s completely empty and bare. Maybe someday Vince and Aisha will use it as a baby room or an office. Harry pictures Queen and Rolling Stones’ posters on the walls, the bookshelf with the records and comic books and journals, clothes piled on the floor that he’d eventually drag to the wash. He leans against the windowsill and imagines the bed where it used to be. He sees himself waking her up for school or to come down and work the till.

Home is not a place, but this one always felt like it.

He presses his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes when the urge to cry comes to him. Then he clucks his tongue at Belle and she gets to her feet, peering up at him. “Let’s go, girl.”

He says bye to Lauren and Troye on the way down, but not bye forever. His days of working there are mostly over, but the shop will always be his.

Harry approaches the black Audi parked on the kerb. He climbs into the passenger seat with Belle in his lap.

Beside him, Louis asks, “You alright?”

“I will be,” Harry says, resting his hand on Louis’ thigh.

Louis starts up the engine. “Let’s go pick up your new car.”

“God, you sound smug,” Harry says.

Louis laughs loud. “You’ve got no idea.”

†

Paddy’s basement is a maelstrom of things. Bowling balls and dusty exercise equipment. Old books. One ski and two shotguns. Cassie’s old glitter green bike. It all has to go before he can sell, which Harry has been putting off for too long. To be fair, he got married, honeymooned in Bora Bora (courtesy of Andy), and relocated all in the last month, leaving little time for much else.

But early on the weekend, he trades his new Range Rover (which he will admit he’s obsessed with) for a rented moving lorry and they make the drive to Mullingar via ferry.

Andy slaps at her ankle. “I swear something’s crawling on me.”

“There’s nothing crawling on you,” Harry says, although there might be. He ventures further into the musty space, certain that a mouse or two is rotting beneath the clutter. “Let’s start with the big boxes.”

An hour passes as they work. They get the glass door open and the air drifting into the space helps. It’s a slow, gruelling process, but they get the bigger boxes mostly cleared and Andy moves on to smaller ones on the opposite wall.

“Hey, Dad,” she calls a while later.

Harry tosses a pair of worn trainers towards the junk pile and joins her. “What’s up?”

Andy steps aside allowing Harry to see the box open in front of her. He catches sight of faded red, orange, and yellow and reaches for it without hesitation. A great cloud of dust comes with the fabric as he pulls it free. He shakes it out like an old quilt and holds it up high.

The flag’s colours are nearly sepia but still distinguishable and proud as ever.

“I thought you said Paddy was a homophobe,” Andy says.

“I didn’t say it like that,” Harry says. He tried to speak the very best of the man around Andy. If he remembers correctly he mentioned that Paddy had conservative beliefs about sexuality and marriage.

“Well, what’s this?” Andy asks, gesturing.

Harry folds the flag over his forearm, turning towards the box again. “It was your mother’s.”

It’s all there, a little marred by dust and age, but there. Not in a landfill like he always imagined. He spent years regretting how he left things with Paddy that day, but more often he regretted leaving Cassie’s songs and pictures behind to be thrown away. Now, he stands in front of them again, feeling like he’s travelled full circle.

Harry sets a picture of Cassie and Alice aside while Andy looks at another one.

“Some of it might not be PG,” Harry warns.

“I’m eighteen,” Andy replies, flipping the picture over. She reads the poem quietly and then sets it down. “Christ—”

“You never listen,” Harry says. Cassie rivalled Sappho with her eroticism.

Andy skips the rest of the poems and saves the journals for later.

Harry holds up a crocheted rainbow bra. “She wore this to her first Pride march. I think we were sixteen.”

“Such a babe,” Andy says. She holds it up to her own body. “This would absolutely fit me. Maybe I’ll wear it when we’re back on tour.”

“I bet some of her make-up is in here too. She had gold lipstick that looked amazing.” He digs around in the box, finding another stack of photos. He sets them aside. Andy snatches them up and begins flipping through them.

“Speaking of the tour,” Harry says, carefully. “Louis told me he heard from Rose and that he spoke to you girls about her decision.”

Andy focuses intently on the pictures. “Yeah, he did.”

“How are you feeling?”

Andy shoves her fringe away from her eyes. “I’m not surprised,” she says, quietly. “Rachel finally got to her, I guess.” She shrugs. “Rose has always wanted to be the lead singer, so one of us had to go.”

Harry watches her carefully. “How does it feel here?” he asks, tapping his own chest.

Andy glances at him and shakes her head. She’s quiet for a moment, flipping through the pictures again. “Hurts like hell,” she says, finally. “But I’ll get over it, right?”

“You absolutely will,” Harry says. “You’ll hurt and then you’ll heal.”

Rose would finish off the rest of the tour and then she’d be gone and healing would be a lot easier then.

“Glad Paddy got rid of this moustache,” Andy comments, turning a picture towards him. She wants to change the subject and he lets it happen, laughing at Paddy’s dated facial hair that looked like a horizontal curly bracket.

“Hey, look,” Andy says. “It’s us.”

Harry accepts the picture she holds out to him, dragging his thumb across it carefully to clear the dust.

Harry remembers it all immediately. He’s leaning against the bonnet of the Fairlane. The summer sun was in his eyes and he had to squint looking towards the camera. In his arms is Andy, only months old and much too tiny.

His parents and Cassie’s parents had been relentless that day. No matter how Harry held his baby, he was never doing it right. He buckled her into the car seat the wrong way. Tied her shoes wrong. Whenever he held her, Diane would sweep in to take her from him, insisting she needed a winding or a changing. Andy didn’t make it easy for him either, crying endlessly and proving to everyone that he didn’t know how to console her.

He’d been a little on the verge of tears in the picture and Cassie knew it. She placed Andy in his arms and touched his cheek. “You’re doing great,” she said. “Now give us a smile.”

He looked terrified as ever, but he did smile. She’d said enough for him to manage that. Cassie always said and did enough for him.

It’s not the memory that gets him though. It’s when he flips the picture over and sees her note.

_Bravest of them all, Harry at 17_

He feels Andy’s gaze on him and their eyes meet. She smiles, sliding her arm around his waist, dropping her head against his shoulder. “She’s right,” she says.

Harry squeezes her close. “Thanks, love.”

†

**OCTOBER 2018**

Harry frames Andy’s posters and hangs them in one of the spare bedrooms in hopes that she’ll feel as comfortable staying there as she did in Northampton. He frames some of Cassie’s pictures too and hangs the flag behind her bed. He and Alice meet again for lunch that week. He’s never seen her cry until he hands her Cassie’s notes.

Harvest starts with moments Harry has waited his whole life for: eating breakfast in the sun with Louis, kissing him asleep at night, and dragging him out of bed in the morning. He drags him out of his office too, at least once a day. One Sunday, it’s to plant roses and sunflowers in the garden. The next Sunday, it’s for the tomatoes and peppers. Much later in October, they repaint the kitchen sunset yellow and like it so much, they give the other rooms new colours too, then soak in their new hot tub while it all dries.

“Girl or boy?”

Harry turns his head lazily to him. “Hm?”

“Would you want a girl or a boy?” Louis asks.

Harry pushes himself upright. “I thought you wanted to go with a surrogate.”

“I do,” Louis says. “I’m just wondering.”

Only two things make Louis unfailingly nervous. That’s matters of love and matters of babies. Their baby, specifically. Whenever he talks about it, there’s a hurriedness to his speech like he has to get all the words out before he wakes up from this dream.

Harry is nervous too, but not in the same way. He uses his slight advantage to field Louis’ worries and pacify him when necessary. He slinks a bit closer now, pushing Louis’ damp hair away from his eyes.

“Obviously, I have experience with girls, but they’re difficult,” Harry says. “A boy would be easier.”

“So, a boy?” Louis asks.

“I’m not saying that. I’d be happy for either.”

“But if you had to choose…?”

“A girl,” Harry says with a shrug.

“Me too.” Louis laughs, tilting his head back, staring up at the sky. It’s twilight, stars just beginning to burst through the darkness. “Luna. That’s a nice name.”

Harry smiles. “Keeping up with tradition?”

“I’d like to,” Louis says.

Harry leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of Louis’ mouth. “I like Luna.”

Louis turns to him and kisses him again and doesn’t stop until the moon is burning big and boundless above them.

†

**DECEMBER 2018**

At the start of the month, Andy comes for Rhea and Mell. Hers was always the most fitting home for the dogs, but Harry is surprisingly sad to see them go. He’s so sad Louis gets him another dog for Christmas. ‘Beau’, they call him because tradition.

Harry’s gifts to Louis are numerous: a leather jacket, which is Andy’s idea, because one ‘can’t really be a Styles without it’, an engraved flask — LWTS now — to make up for the lighter Louis no longer uses, a vintage pair of Chuck Taylors, and a few new ties. The day prior and in private, he gives him the handcuffs and a round of birthday sex that involves Harry bound and blindfolded.

He borrows the blindfold for his last gift which he gives to Louis on New Years. He leads him across the hall with his hands on his shoulders and brings him to a halt.

“Okay,” he says, untying the blindfold. “You can open your eyes.”

Louis does. Harry hovers behind him as Louis steps into the room.

“Andy and Gemma helped me paint the walls, but I called someone in to do the ceiling,” Harry says. The walls are a periwinkle blue, but the ceiling is a mural of the midnight sky with broad strokes depicting clouds and finer ones for stars. The constellations are accurate, stencilled with connecting lines. Louis stares up at it for a while.

“Ralph put the cot together,” Harry says, when Louis draws nearer to it, resting his hands on the white wood rails. He reaches in, touching the soft cotton bedding and the neatly folded quilt. “And your mum made that.”

Louis turns to him, his eyes red-rimmed.

“There’s something in here from everyone,” Harry says. “The mobile is from Stan. Zayn sent the artwork. Think he made it himself.” He goes to the cupboard and opens it, revealing folded clothes and a row of shoes. “Your sisters brought _all_ of this. Went a bit overboard. It’s all gender neutral apparently.”

Louis’ lips twitch.

“The Gucci trainers are from Andy,” Harry says. “And the baby bag, also Gucci. The pram is from Sally. The rug and the rocking chair are from my parents.”

Harry takes a quick perusal of the whole room.

“And I think we’re all set,” he says, which of course is when Louis walks to him, presses his head to Harry’s shoulder and cries. He doesn’t sob, because Harry can’t imagine Louis ever full-on sobbing about anything. If Harry weren’t holding him, he might not be able to tell he were crying at all. But he is holding him and he does so for a while.

†

**JULY 2022**

Luna pushes her pointer finger down on G as Louis plays C and E. Her bright blue eyes meet his and he gives her a smile and a kiss on her forehead.

“That’s my girl,” he says. “That’s C major.”

She’s taking to piano faster than guitar, which Harry is only a little disgruntled by. You can’t force a child to play an instrument, but everyone else in their family is a guitarist. It only makes sense that Luna should be one too. Louis assures him that when she’s older she might have more interest in guitar then. For now, it’s piano, piano, piano. Whenever Louis sits to play, she crawls into his lap and joins him.

“Don’t be jealous,” Louis says to him while Luna starts on her breakfast moments later.

Harry has a sip of his coffee. “I’m not jealous.”

“You’re a little jealous,” Louis says, and he’s right. “We can’t all be amazing guitarists.”

“But we _are_ all amazing guitarists,” Harry says. “You included.”

He’s improved a lot in the last five years, thanks to Harry and Andy both.

“Maybe what we need is another amazing pianist then.”

Harry shrugs. “I’ve got nothing against that.”

Louis lifts his brows. “Sure.”

Harry sets his cup down and approaches him. He presses one hand against the worktop on either side of Louis’ hips, boxing him in. “Just so we’re clear, I find you teaching our daughter piano incredibly attractive,” he says. “I’m a little jealous but mostly aroused.”

He smothers Louis’ laughter with a kiss, which is when Andy enters the kitchen, issuing a round of vomiting noises.

“You two have a room,” she says.

“And a house,” Louis replies, tousling her hair. She hip-checks them both out of the way of the coffee machine, pours herself a cup and leaves the kitchen with a ‘carry on’.

Louis kisses Harry again. “Later.”

But later, they’re both exhausted after hours several in the studio.

Louis has spent the last several years slowly but surely drawing Harry into the clutches of the music industry and Harry’s role has expanded from shareholder to singer/songwriter to co-producer. It was the natural progression of things after Louis’ EP. Harry helped write or played on all but two of the tracks. He was made for music in the same way Cassie was and Andy is. But as with all things that he loves fiercely, it exhausts him.

Their long day at the studio is followed by a long night chasing Luna around the house. It’s entirely Harry’s fault. He gives her ice cream in spite of Louis insisting that it’s too late. They can’t get her into the bath afterwards. She runs starkers from room to room, sliding through their grasp with an unprecedented ease.

“Harry, you have to stop laughing,” Louis tells him. “She thinks we’re playing a game.”

Luna peeks into the dining room, her smile devious, and Harry dissolves into another round of laughter.

“Christ,” Louis breathes, and then he’s after her. If it were up to Harry, he’d crack open a beer and give it time. He’d let her run around like he did with Andy until she passed out. But Louis is intent on catching her and Luna evades him again and again, running around and around the living room, slipping between his legs. Harry composes himself enough to help. They catch her at an impasse by the couch, Louis on one side of her, Harry on the other.

“We’ve got you now, love,” Louis says, grinning.

She tries to climb up the couch, but he scoops her into his arms as she thrashes. He blows a raspberry into her tummy and she laughs. She doesn’t calm down after the bath, tossing water around until Louis and Harry are drenched. They get her dressed at least, but she’s a nightmare for another hour.

And then Harry is right. A person so tiny can only hold so much fuel. He finishes cleaning the bath to find her and Louis knocked out on the couch. He carries Luna to bed and returns for Louis, who wakes with a pointed look.

“No more ice cream after 8,” Harry says, smiling sheepishly. He draws an ‘x’ over his heart, then takes Louis’ hand in his own. “I promise.”

†

**AUGUST 2024**

They have a treehouse built for Luna’s fifth birthday. Louis had looked into the logistics of doing it on their own but quickly backed out once he had. Treehouse building requires a lot of maths and a lot of patience that they don’t have. They at least paint the finished job themselves. They paint it pink.

Funny enough, they might have been spending more time up there than their daughter has. They like to wait until she’s asleep and then they climb up with a bottle of wine and maybe a record. They’ve got an Arcade Fire album spinning now.

Harry sets his wine glass down and lies back, his head nestled between Louis’ bicep and his shoulder.

“Don’t you feel like life is never going to slow down?”

Louis, who was well on his way to dozing off, opens his eyes. “You want it to?”

“No,” Harry says. “I don’t think so.”

Louis hums. “I think the older we’ve got, the busier we’ve become.”

“I’m alright with that, aren’t you?”

“I’m alright with anything, so long as you’re there.”

Harry scoffs. “Jump into a volcano with me then.”

“Pick one and we’ll go for a dip,” Louis says.

Harry laughs, slapping his hand against Louis’ chest. “Today your mum asked me if we had trouble keeping up with Luna.”

“Didn't like her calling you old, did you?” Louis asks.

“We _are_ old,” Harry says. “It's the idea that we’re slowing down that got me. Because it isn’t true. I think that's probably what's expected of us or something. Once your thirties are over, everyone expects you to mellow out.”

“I wouldn't describe us as mellow.”

“Neither would I. We’ve got a steady life but it’s crazy half the time. Not in the terrifying way it was ten years ago. But every now and then, something goes off the rails, and we handle it. We do it well.” Harry traces Louis’ answering smile, first with his gaze, then with his thumb. “We’re not the kind to slow down,” he says. “When we’re sixty, I think I'll still feel young with you.”

Louis kisses his thumb. “I think so too,” he says. “Is this your way of telling me you want to have another baby?”

Harry rolls onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes. They both laugh and laugh, a little tipsy and maybe loud enough to wake the neighbours. Louis leans over him, kissing him in the spaces between a giggle and a snort.

“Look at us in this treehouse,” Louis says, sucking a bruise into Harry’s collarbone. “Got up here just fine.” Nevermind that the treehouse was made for a child and nearly anyone could reach it with ease. Louis draws Harry’s legs around his waist. “Don't think we’re slowing down at all.”

“Good.” Harry smiles, his dimple appearing. “Because I think we should have another baby.”

Louis studies him openly, gauging his level of determination and ardour. It doesn't take him long. “We could adopt,” he says.

“We could,” Harry says. “We should.”

†

**APRIL 2025**

“Luna insisted on wearing her Wonderlands’ T-shirt,” Harry says. “She couldn’t be reasoned with.”

“A little tasteless,” Andy says, smiling, “but we’ll give her a pass, being five and all.” She pushes the fourth of her six rings onto her pointer finger. “I just don't like T-shirts with my face on it, you know? The coolest bands never put their faces on their shirts.”

“Don't let Louis hear you say that,” Harry says.

“One Direction is an exception to the rule,” Andy says, turning back to her mirror framed by lights and several bouquets from family and friends. The peonies are his own. She runs her hands through her short dark hair. It’s gone from silver to blonde to near black in the past year. Then five months ago, she cut it all off and started again. He’s stopped asking questions, but he’s happy with the brown.

“Luna’s got plenty of posters up in her room,” Harry says. “You and Louis’ faces are everywhere.”

“You’re the one who _buys_ them for her.”

Harry shrugs. “I can’t help it.” Luna has Louis’ eyes and Louis’ pout and Harry can deny her nothing. “She's starting to influence Peter too. Goes without saying but they both adore you.”

“I'm pretty fond of them too,” Andy says, turning to face him. “I look okay, yeah?” She gestures to her crop top and high-waist black jeans. “Not like I'm trying too hard?”

“You look like the girl whose single is tearing up the charts,” Harry says.

“Our single,” she says.

Harry resists an eye roll or a self-deprecating one-liner because she’s right. After years of prodding, he finally agreed to sing for the whole world to hear. In the end, it was Andy’s reasoning that got him. The song was one of Cassie’s and Cassie would have wanted him to sing it with her.

The whole process was surprisingly less daunting than he anticipated. He, Andy and Louis sat down in the studio at home and didn’t leave until the track was finished. Andy sang and Harry harmonised, their voices running together so seamlessly, like his and Cassie’s had, like his and Andy’s did too when they practised in their tiny flat.

They hit their last note, lifting shaking fingers away from the guitar strings. Louis played his last key, dropped his hands in his lap and looked at them both.

“Fucking incredible,” he’d said, and Harry hadn’t rolled his eyes then either because he was right.

“One last thing,” Andy says now, going to the cupboard on the side of the room. She reaches inside and turns to face him, holding a bottle of Don Julio and two shot glasses. She lifts her brows.

“Hell yes,” Harry says. “Give it here.” He pops the cork on the bottle and fills the glasses. He lifts one as Andy lifts the other. “To rock and roll.”

She laughs, tapping her glass against his. They knock the shots back, faces twisting after the burn. Andy shakes her shoulders out and looks at him. It’s that telltale look. He cups her face between his palms gently.

“You’re going to be great,” he says. “Play your heart out.”

“Buzz on, you mean?” Andy says, and Harry snorts.

“No, you’re not my little Bee anymore.”

She reaches for the necklace tucked beneath her top and pulls the bee pendant into the open with one brow arched. “Think again.”

Harry bites hard on his bottom lip. He said he wouldn’t cry and he won’t. He pulls her into his arms instead and they hug each other tightly just as there's a knock at her dressing room door. He presses a kiss to her curly head and lets her go.

Andy steps into the corridor with Harry close behind her. She accepts her Les Paul from a technician, throwing the strap over her shoulder. She glances at Harry as a stylist gives her face another dusting of powder and then they’re both out of each other’s sight as Harry is directed to a VIP area where the rest of their family waits.

Louis stands beside his mum and sisters, holding Luna and Peter. “She's good?” he asks.

Harry takes Peter into one arm and throws the other across Louis’ shoulders. “She's perfect.”

The house goes dark and the fans scream. When a set of spotlights explode and flash pink and white, Andy appears seemingly from nowhere, running toward the front of the stage. She reaches the mic and releases a mighty shout as her drummer slams the cymbals. Her fingers ghost her guitar as she sings a sultry electronic track. She sways from side to side and in Louis’ arms, Luna sways too. She screams when Andy screams. The first time she does it, he and Louis laugh. The second time, they scream too.

Andy slows things down halfway through her set, switching out the Les Paul for an acoustic Gibson.

“Thank you for being here on what might be the best night of my life thus far,” she says, strumming softly. “I’ve got my family and friends here with me. And all of you. Thank you so much.”

She looks towards the VIP area and her strumming picks up. Harry’s smile grows as he recognises the chords and Andy smiles back.

“This is my newest single,” Andy says. “It was written by my mother.”

He sees Cassie when she begins to sing. But not in the way Alice did years ago. Not even in the way he does when he looks at Andy for too long or when her brown hair glows red in the sun. He sees her in an intangible, incorporeal way. In the place where the spotlights meet the dark and where one note ends and another begins.

He sees her sometimes in the second between Louis’ inhale and exhale in the quiet of their bedroom, and in the way Luna and Peter are both divine and devious.

Every moment has the propensity for wonder. Cassie taught him that.

It just took him a while to learn.

†

 

_In the humility of wonder, I begin to hear a song in the discord. In this terrifying middle ground between what I know and what I don’t know, I unclench my fists and surrender. I find myself stretched tight between power and powerlessness, between what is and what will be. Like a guitar string that can only sing when it’s put under tension — that’s where the best of all of us is born. Our journey of life is a narrow river that runs between the mountains of chaos and control, predestination and freewill. I force myself to let go of the reeds on the side of the river and flow in the space between the dream and the action, between what I control and what I don’t. This is where life happens — where relationships rise and fall, where empires succeed or meet their demise. These are the deep waters: the glorious terrible space between the mirage and the facts, between waking and the dream. This is where we live, and where our song is born. Somewhere between chaos and control — these are the wonderlands._

\- jon foreman

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were inspired to make fan art or anything like it, please link me here or tag me on tumblr/twitter!! On that note, thank you again, Rin ([heriz](http://heriz.tumblr.com/)), for [this beautiful masterpost](https://heriz.tumblr.com/post/162586480120/the-wonderlands-chapter-1-chapter-2-chapter#notes)!!
> 
> I want to say thank you all for your patience and support, for your comments, your tweets, your messages, your suggestions for the playlist. I’m ridiculously grateful for each one of you!!
> 
> Lastly, this fic would not exist without the help of a few people and you know who you are. I can't thank each of you enough for the individual ways you've helped me get this thing done. Whether that's by proofreading, Brit-picking or getting me out of my head when I got lost. Thanks for sacrificing so much of your time! Your encouragement and support mean the world to me.
> 
> That's all for now, friends!! Much love!! :) xx
> 
> [header image cred](http://insidetherockposterframe.blogspot.com/2012/03/shepard-fairey-obey-giant-black-keys.html)
> 
> [masterpost](http://aliensingucci.tumblr.com/post/163195553466/alienproof-the-wonderlands-somewhere-between) | [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/lululawrence/playlist/3KPAEcgmFN7rD3QD9d7L06) | [tumblr](http://aliensingucci.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/stylinson_city)
> 
> Thank you [voldemorti](http://voldemorti.tumblr.com/) for [this post dedicated to Andy](http://voldemorti.tumblr.com/post/162290571288/i-love-performing-andy-says-interrupting-his)!!
> 
> Thank you [jimmytfallon](http://jimmytfallon.tumblr.com/) for [this beautiful edit](http://jimmytfallon.tumblr.com/post/162456180222/the-wonderlands-by-stylinsoncity)!!


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